My mom was an absolute powerhouse in sports. She was such a talented baseball player that a major league scout mistakenly thought “Jamie” was a boy’s name. The scout told her coach how unfortunate it was that she wasn’t male, as he would’ve eagerly signed her up. She was a phenomenal shortstop, capable of hitting home runs from a crouched position and catching like a pro. She also danced like a dream, gracefully mastering complex routines as if she were just tapping a beat on a drum.
Mom outpaced, outperformed, and even outboxed every boy in our neighborhood near the Army base. More than just a star athlete, she had a unique gift for bringing out the best in others. She regularly coached underdogs to victory with her blend of skill, patience, and wisdom.
Then came me. Bless her heart.
I emerged into this world in the least coordinated way possible, and I’m likely to leave it the same way. I’m the most unathletic and clumsy person in my family. After years of her athletic achievements, my mother switched gears to nurse my countless injuries from all my mishaps in everyday life.
Mom once admitted she worried about how she would raise a daughter. As rough and tumble as she was, she wondered if she could help a girl find her worth. What would she do if her child was enamored with dolls and pink?
Well, she did exactly what she needed to do, because I was all about “girl” from the get-go. Pink, sparkles, lace, everything fluffy—you name it, I embraced it. If something didn’t have glitter, I knew just how to add it. I think I even considered giving my dog a makeover at one point!
Although my mom might not have been sure how to handle my girly side, she never let it show. She celebrated my passions and valued what I found important. Rather than just observing, she coached me. The ultimate coach, she sought out my strengths and encouraged me while also helping me improve my weaknesses.
By the time I was 13, she had given up on my athletic potential. My most remarkable moment in junior high softball was accidentally catching a pop fly, then sitting on third base, clueless about what to do next.
Despite my lack of athletic skills, my mother never stopped coaching me in life. It wasn’t until I became a mother myself that I truly grasped the mental strength, patience, and wisdom it takes to guide a child toward their best self.
Mom didn’t know how to navigate the complexities of raising her unique daughter, so she took the time to study me. She discovered where I could shine, enrolling me in college-level literary courses, arranging special trips to museums and theaters, and setting me up with charm schools, talent agents, voice lessons, and even fashion shows. And let’s not forget the failed attempts at ice skating, tennis, dance, and gymnastics—each time I fell, she was there, driving me to the ER and gently steering me toward my true talents.
She cherished what I loved because she saw my worth. Her encouragement helped me develop my unique style, and her love in the face of my athletic failures taught me that losing doesn’t equate to failure. In fact, she showed me that the real failure is being afraid to try.
Now, I have a son. And let me tell you, he’s got coordination and natural athletic talent that surpasses both his dad and me combined. While I’m well-versed in literature, acting, fashion, and lip gloss, those subjects don’t hold much weight on the athletic fields. Sure, David Beckham might rock eyeliner, but not when he’s scoring goals!
What I learned from my mother is that good parenting revolves around discovering your child’s natural abilities and helping them grow. It’s about being a student of your child, nurturing their best qualities, and drawing out their full potential.
My son and I are incredibly fortunate that he has my mom to help him cultivate his athletic skills. When he began playing coach-pitch baseball two years ago, she took it upon herself to help him practice at home. After just a week with her, he returned to his team, and his coaches were in awe.
“Kid,” his coach exclaimed, “who taught you that? Was it your dad?”
With a huge grin, my son replied, “My grandma taught me!”
My son plays like a girl. Like an extraordinary 73-year-old girl.
His coach requested an introduction. Even sixty years later, people still mistakenly attribute my mom’s incredible skills to a man. But I’m here to tell you that there’s no athlete or coach quite like my amazing Jamie Miller, whose patience, dedication, and insight demonstrate that a loving parent can nurture an artist just as well as an athlete.
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Summary:
This article reflects on the author’s experience being raised by a mother who was an exceptional athlete and coach. Despite her own lack of athleticism, the author learned valuable lessons about self-worth, perseverance, and nurturing talents. Now a mother herself, she encourages her son’s natural athletic abilities with the same love and support her mother provided.