Tom’s Campfire Stories
By Tom Holland
For Coach Patterson.
Snakes. Heights. The dark. Spiders. Your basement.
Imagine facing your greatest fear. When that moment comes, how will your life be different?
As an unathletic kid, I knew my greatest fear early on: having the weight of a sports team resting on me. I had hoped to skirt through childhood and avoid that terror. But alas, this is a horror story. One where the protagonist meets his demon on the field—and the results linger a lifetime.
I was a happy kid, but athletics were not my strength. My younger brother clearly got the athletic genes in the family. I knew I was different when my mom once asked what my favorite part of soccer was—a sport I could never master with my two left feet.
“Obviously, the orange slices, Capri Suns, and Twinkies after the game,” I replied.
(I’m guessing a young Lionel Messi would’ve answered differently.)
But sports were required in our household. And while I gave up soccer (and, sadly, those post-game treats), I was required to keep playing one sport I struggled mightily with: Little League baseball.
For years my coaches—and my dad—worked with me on batting and throwing. Not knowing if I was left- or right-handed (literally) was an issue. But the bigger problem was that I had the hand-eye coordination of an infant wearing oven mitts. By sixth grade, I’d somewhat mastered fielding and throwing, but batting was another story. I had never gotten a hit. Not once.
As the ninth batter in the order, and a kid who liked strategy and math, I often sat on the bench calculating possible outcomes for when I’d have to bat. My favorite scenarios were the low-stakes ones—two outs, no one on base, already winning by a few runs.
Then came sixth grade, when something changed. Suddenly our team was good—really good—and we found ourselves in the championship game. The tension in the dugout was electric. Parents leaned forward in the bleachers. We entered our final inning down by one run.
And I realized I might be in trouble.
I wanted to win—what kid doesn’t?—but I knew I didn’t want the game left to me. So I did what any young Catholic kid would do: I prayed. Hard. I prayed the kids ahead of me would hit a home run, or that someone else would make the final out.
The first batter hit a single.
The second struck out.
The third struck out.
Now my prayers shifted. I hoped the next kid would hit a home run—or strike out—anything to avoid my turn.
He didn’t. He hit a single, moving the runner to third. Two outs. Tying run on third. Winning run on first.
And I was up.
I wanted to cry. Or throw up. Or both.
When I heard the groans of my teammates, I couldn’t blame them. We needed a hit, and I’d never made contact with a pitch. So, being the practical, talkative kid I was, I walked over to my coach.
“Coach,” I said, “I know you like me. But I’ve never gotten a hit. I really think you should put someone else in. I won’t be sad. I just want us to win.”
Coach Patterson smiled. Relief flooded me—he was going to sub me out!
Instead, he put his hands on my shoulders and said, “Well, Tommy, you’re right. We need a hit. But you’re going to be the one to get it for us. Swing away.”
The vomit crept higher in my throat. My teammates looked away. They couldn’t bear to watch.
The first pitch sailed in—called strike. I hadn’t moved the bat. Maybe I’d walk, I thought desperately.
Then a new idea hit me: a bunt! I called time and jogged to my coach. “Coach, you’ve seen me bunt. Let’s go suicide squeeze—I’ll lay it down and give us a chance!”
He smiled. “Good idea, Tommy. But we need a hit. You have to swing.”
I inched back toward the batter’s box with the confidence of a baby deer on roller skates.
The second pitch—strike two. No chance at a walk now. My eyes filled with tears. I couldn’t cry, not before striking out.
I glanced at my coach. He made a swinging motion with his hands, smiled, and said, “I believe in you. But you’ve got to swing the bat.”
I looked up to the stands and found my dad’s eyes. He smiled—encouraging but pained—the look of a parent who wishes they could step in and save their kid from the heartbreak that’s about to come.
“You have to swing,” I whispered to myself.
The pitcher wound up. The crowd roared. The world slowed. I saw the ball clear as day. My heart pounded.
I cocked back, closed my eyes, and swung with everything I had.
Thwack!
The ball hit the catcher’s mitt—two feet above the strike zone. Strike three. Game over.
We lost by one run.
I dropped the bat. Silent tears ran down my face. A parent in the stands berated my coach: “We all know Tommy can’t hit! What were you thinking?”
I couldn’t face my teammates. My brother patted my back, my parents said nothing, and as we pulled out of the parking lot, my coach jogged up beside the car.
“Way to swing, Tommy! We’ll get ’em next year,” he said with a grin.
That night I cried at the bottom of our neighborhood pool. I told my parents I was done with baseball forever.
Swing Away
Years later, as a youth sports coach and camp director, I often think about Coach Patterson. I have no idea where he is today, and he surely doesn’t remember that game. But I do.
I think about how different the story might have been if he’d taken me out—if he’d told me, no, you’re right, you can’t do this. Instead, he believed in me when I didn’t believe in myself.
That simple act—his refusal to save me from failure—has shaped the way I coach, lead, and parent. Kids need adults who tell them, “You can do this,” even when the odds are long.
When I tell this story around the campfire, the kids always expect a Hollywood ending. They want the home run, the cheering crowd, the redemption. But life doesn’t always play out that way.
I struck out. We lost.
But I gained something better.
Coach Patterson gave me a gift I’ve carried ever since: the courage to take the swing.
And every time I see a camper face their own fear—a first backpacking trip, a whitewater rapid, a night under the stars—I think of that sixth-grade moment.
Because sometimes the bravest thing we can do is simply pick up the bat, step into the box, and swing away.
Afterword
The next spring, my parents (annoyingly) made me play again. First game of the new season, ninth in the order, first at-bat. I told myself the same thing: Just go down swinging.
The pitch came in. I swung.
Thwack!
The ball soared over the outfielders’ heads and rolled to the fence. My dad yelled, “RUN!” as I stood frozen at home plate, stunned.
When I reached second base, my teammates erupted. My dad hugged Coach Patterson on the sideline. And afterward, my mom handed me a Twinkie and a Capri Sun.
Turns out, it was the sweetest hit I ever had.
