My mother was an exceptional athlete. She excelled in baseball to the point where a major league scout mistakenly thought Jo Young was a boy. The scout lamented to her coach that he would have loved to recruit her—if only she were male. She was a phenomenal shortstop, capable of hitting home runs from a crouched position and catching like a pro.
But she was also a dancer, moving with grace and agility, able to memorize intricate choreography effortlessly. In our Army Base neighborhood, she outperformed all the boys in sports and even boxing. More than just a talented athlete, she had a unique ability to bring out the best in those around her, often coaching misfits to victory through a mix of practice, patience, and sheer intelligence.
Then came me.
Bless her heart. I made my entry into the world in the most uncoordinated way possible, and I’ve continued that trend—being the least athletic person in my family. After her years of athletic triumphs, my mother transitioned into a nurturing role, tending to the broken bones and injuries I accrued during my everyday adventures.
She once confided that she worried she wouldn’t know how to raise a girl. Despite her rough-and-tumble nature, she feared she wouldn’t be able to help a daughter find her worth. What if her child preferred dolls and pink?
In a way, that’s exactly what happened. Every part of my being was destined to embrace “girl” culture—if “girl” can be used as a verb, I did it with gusto! I immersed myself in pinks, sparkles, and all things glittery. If something lacked sparkle, I was ready to embellish it. My poor dog was often subjected to my beauty experiments.
Though my mother wasn’t initially sure how to handle my interests, she embraced them wholeheartedly. She cherished what I loved and took an active role in my development, coaching me through my strengths while also working on my weaknesses.
However, by the time I was 13, she had given up on my athletic skills. My most memorable moment in junior high softball was when I caught a pop fly by accident and then sat on third base, unsure of what to do next.
Despite my lack of athletic ability, my mother never stopped coaching me in life. It wasn’t until I became a mother myself that I gained insight into the dedication it takes to nurture a child into their best self.
My mother, unsure of how to navigate my unique nature, studied me. She discovered my talents and supported my pursuits with college-level literature courses, special museum trips, charm schools, and talent agents. There were also the inevitable failed attempts at ice skating, tennis, dance, and gymnastics. Each time I stumbled or got hurt, she was there to drive me to the emergency room and guide me back to what I loved most.
She valued my passions because she valued me. Her genuine interest in my pursuits made me feel interesting and cherished. She helped me find my own style with abundant encouragement while treating my athletic failures with such love that I never feared or felt embarrassed by losing. She taught me that losing isn’t failure; failure is refusing to play.
Now, I have a son who has an innate athletic ability that far surpasses both his father and me. While I am well-versed in areas like writing, fashion, and music, I recognize that those skills don’t quite translate onto the sports fields.
What I learned from my mother is that being a good parent is about recognizing your child’s natural abilities and nurturing them to their fullest potential. It’s about being a student of your child’s character and helping them grow through your own practice, patience, and understanding.
We are incredibly fortunate that my son has my mom to help develop his athletic skills. When he began playing coach-pitch baseball two years ago, she took charge of his training at home. After just a week with her, his coaches were astonished at his improvement.
“Son?” his coach called out, incredulous. “Who taught you that? Your dad?”
With a big grin, my son replied, “My grandma taught me!”
So yes, my son plays like a girl. Like a remarkable 73-year-old girl.
His coach even asked to meet her. It seems that decades later, coaches still mistake my mother’s incredible abilities for those of a man. But let me be clear: there is no athlete or coach quite like my mighty Jo Young, whose blend of patience, practice, and intelligence demonstrates that a great parent can cultivate an artist just as easily as an athlete.
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In summary, motherhood is about recognizing and nurturing your child’s unique abilities, whether they lean towards sports, arts, or anything in between. Just like my mother did for me, we can help our children shine in their own ways.