Walsh Family Universe V2

Spring arrived in late March, bringing warmer weather and the start of the new T-ball season. Ash had been playing since October—six months of practices and games, of learning to hit and catch and run bases.

Six months of his toddler body getting stronger, more coordinated, more capable.

"Ready for today's practice?" Patrick asked Saturday morning, already wearing his coach volunteer shirt. He'd signed up to help Coach Mike this season, wanting to be more involved.

Ash was eating his pregame breakfast—banana and toast with peanut butter, the routine Patrick had established for sports days.

"Yeah."

"That's my athlete." Patrick ruffled his hair. "I've seen you practicing your swing in the backyard. You're getting really good, buddy."

It was true. Ash had spent time after school some days, swinging the plastic bat at imaginary balls, his small body remembering the movements, building muscle memory. His adult understanding of physics and trajectory combined with his toddler body's natural coordination made for an interesting result.

He was getting good.

Better than most of the other kids his age.

And part of him—the part that was Noam, the part that was adapting—felt proud of that.

At the field, Emma ran up immediately. "Noam! Did you see? We have matching socks!" She pointed at her red and white striped athletic socks. Ash was wearing the same ones—part of the team uniform.

"Yeah. Cool."

"We're going to win today! I can feel it!" Emma's enthusiasm was infectious as always.

Marcus joined them, quieter but offering a fist bump. "Ready?"

"Ready."

Coach Mike gathered the team—the Little Sluggers, still mostly the same kids from fall but with a few additions. Patrick stood beside him, holding a clipboard.

"Alright team! We've got a game today against the Lightning Bolts. But first, warm-ups and practice. Let's show them what we've learned!"

They ran through drills. Ash moved through them automatically now—his body knowing what to do, muscles responding without conscious thought.

Catching practice: Ash's hand-eye coordination had improved dramatically. He caught six out of ten balls Coach Mike tossed to him, a huge improvement from barely catching one back in October.

"Nice job, Noam!" Coach Mike called. "Your catching has really come along!"

Patrick was beaming from the sideline.

Batting practice: Each kid got turns at the tee. When Ash's turn came, he stepped up with confidence he hadn't had at the start of the season. Positioned his feet the way Patrick had shown him. Gripped the bat properly. Focused on the ball.

Swing.

Crack.

The ball flew—not just rolling into the infield like most kids' hits, but actually flying through the air, landing in the outfield grass.

"WHOA!" Tyler shouted. "Did you see that?"

"That was amazing!" Emma jumped up and down.

Coach Mike looked genuinely impressed. "Noam, that was a real hit! Great power, great form. That's what we're looking for!"

Patrick was grinning like Ash had just won the World Series. He jogged over as Ash walked back from the tee.

"That was incredible, buddy. Did you feel how solid that hit was?"

"Yeah."

"That's what happens when you practice and use good form. I'm so proud of you." Patrick squeezed his shoulder. "You're becoming a real ballplayer."

Something warm spread through Ash's chest at those words. Pride. His father's pride in him, specific and genuine and about something Ash was actually good at.

It felt... good.

Really good.

The game started at 11 AM. The Lightning Bolts were a good team—several kids who'd been playing since they were two, with solid skills.

But the Little Sluggers had been practicing all winter.

And Noam Walsh, it turned out, was their secret weapon.

First inning, Ash was third in the batting lineup. When his turn came, he stepped up to the tee with the confidence of someone who knew exactly what he was doing.

The opposing team's parents were chatting, not paying much attention. Just another three-year-old about to weakly tap the ball.

Ash swung.

CRACK.

The ball sailed over the infield, into the outfield, rolling all the way to the fence.

"RUN!" Patrick and Coach Mike shouted together.

Ash ran—his small legs pumping, his body knowing exactly how to move. First base. Second base. The outfielders were still chasing the ball. Third base. The throw was coming but not fast enough.

Home plate.

"SAFE!" Coach Mike blew his whistle. "HOME RUN! That's a home run!"

The Little Sluggers went wild. Emma and Marcus and Tyler and the rest of the team mobbed Ash at home plate, jumping and cheering.

Patrick was on his feet, hands raised in celebration, looking more excited than Ash had seen him in months.

"THAT'S MY BOY!" Patrick shouted, not caring who heard. "That's my son!"

Shannon, watching from the bleachers with Sophie in her carrier, was recording on her phone, laughing and clapping.

Ash felt that warmth again, stronger now. He'd done something impressive. Something that made his team happy and his parents proud and earned genuine celebration.

He'd hit a home run.

At three years old.

The game continued. Ash caught two fly balls in the outfield—actual catches, not just lucky grabs. Hit another solid double in the fourth inning. Helped Tyler up when he tripped running to second base.

The Little Sluggers won, 8-4.

After the game, parents came up to Patrick, complimenting Ash's playing.

"He's really something!" one dad said. "Natural athlete."

"Must get it from you," another mom said. "Didn't you play in high school?"

Patrick's chest was puffed with pride. "I did, yeah. But Noam's got talent all his own. Just needed to learn the basics."

Coach Mike pulled Ash aside. "Hey superstar, that was an amazing game. Best I've seen you play. You're really developing into one of our strongest players."

He handed Ash a special sticker—a gold star that said "MVP of the Game."

Emma gasped. "You got MVP! That's so cool!"

Marcus high-fived him. "You were so fast running the bases."

In the car on the way home, Patrick couldn't stop talking about the game.

"That first home run—did you see their faces? Nobody expected that from a three-year-old. And your catches! Your form is getting so good. We should practice more in the backyard, really develop your skills."

Shannon glanced back at Ash from the passenger seat. "We're so proud of you, sweetie. You worked really hard and it showed."

"I knew Noam was good," Sophie babbled from her car seat, not actually saying words but contributing baby sounds to the conversation.

"Even Sophie's proud of her uncle," Patrick laughed. "This calls for a celebration. Pizza for lunch?"

At the pizza place, Patrick ordered Ash his favorite—cheese pizza with extra cheese. They sat in a booth, Patrick still analyzing the game, Shannon showing Ash the video she'd recorded.

"Look at you run," she said, replaying the home run. "So fast! And you slid into home perfectly."

Watching himself on the video felt surreal. There was Noam Walsh, three years old, running bases with determination, sliding into home, jumping up with his arms raised in victory.

He looked happy. Genuinely happy.

He looked like a kid who loved playing baseball.

That afternoon, Patrick set up the tee in the backyard.

"Want to practice a bit more? Just for fun?"

And here was the thing—Ash did want to. His body felt good, energized from the game. His muscles wanted to swing the bat again, to feel that solid connection.

"Okay."

They spent an hour in the backyard. Patrick pitching gentle tosses instead of using the tee, Ash learning to hit moving balls. Sometimes he missed. Sometimes he hit grounders. Sometimes he connected perfectly and the ball flew.

"Yes! Just like that!" Patrick retrieved the ball and threw again. "You're getting the timing. See? When you watch the ball all the way to the bat—perfect."

Patrick's joy was palpable. This was what he'd wanted—a son to play catch with, to coach, to watch develop into an athlete. Something he'd never had with Ash the first time around, when Ash had been more interested in art than sports.

Now he had it.

And Ash—despite everything, despite the wrongness of the whole situation—found himself enjoying it too. The physicality of the sport. The clear rules and objectives. The satisfaction of improvement. The praise from his father.

"I think we've got a future Little League player here," Patrick said, catching a hit and tossing the ball back. "Maybe even high school baseball someday. You've got natural talent, buddy."

Natural talent. Or adult spatial awareness and understanding of physics combined with a young body developing muscle memory and coordination.

But it was talent either way.

At dinner that night, Patrick told the story of the home run to anyone who'd listen. Called his own father—Ash's grandfather—to brag about his grandson.

"Dad, you should have seen it. He absolutely crushed the ball. The other team didn't know what hit them. I'm telling you, this kid's got something special."

Later, tucking Ash into bed, Patrick sat on the edge of the mattress.

"I'm really proud of you, Noam. Not just for playing well today—though that was incredible—but for sticking with T-ball, for practicing, for being part of the team. You've worked hard and it shows."

"Thanks, Dad."

Patrick's expression softened. "You know, when you were born—when you came to us—I had all these dreams about the things we'd do together. Playing catch. Teaching you sports. Watching you grow into your potential." He brushed Ash's hair back from his forehead. "I know the circumstances are complicated. I know this isn't what you would have chosen. But I'm grateful I get to do this with you. To be your dad in this way. To watch you discover things you're good at and see you shine."

Ash didn't know what to say. Patrick's happiness was genuine. His pride was real. He loved coaching his son, loved seeing Ash excel, loved this father-son bonding over baseball.

And Ash couldn't fully hate it. Couldn't deny that hitting that home run had felt good. That his father's pride had warmed something in him. That being good at T-ball gave him something positive in this strange life.

"I like playing," Ash admitted quietly.

"I can tell. And you're so good at it." Patrick kissed his forehead. "Get some rest, superstar. We've got practice again next Saturday."

After Patrick left, Ash lay in the dark, the MVP sticker still on his shirt, his muscles pleasantly tired from a day of baseball.

"My name is Ash," he whispered. "I'm twenty-five years old. Today I hit a home run in T-ball and made my dad really happy."

The contradiction was there, as always. But softer now. Less sharp.

Because part of him—the Noam part, the adapted part—had enjoyed today. Had felt proud of that home run. Had basked in his father's joy and praise.

Had discovered that being good at something, even something as simple as three-year-old T-ball, felt good.

Five thousand four hundred and fifty-six days to go.

But today he'd been a natural athlete. Had made his team win. Had seen his father's face light up with genuine pride and happiness.

Had been the kind of son Patrick had always wanted.

And the most complicated part wasn't that it was forced.

It was that it wasn't entirely forced anymore.

Some part of him genuinely enjoyed it.

Some part of him was proud to be good at T-ball.

Some part of him liked making his dad happy.

And that part was growing stronger every day.

He fell asleep with the MVP sticker still on his shirt, dreaming of perfect hits and flying balls and his father's proud voice calling "That's my boy!"

Dreams that felt less like a nightmare and more like... just dreams.

Normal dreams.

The dreams of a three-year-old who'd had a really good day playing baseball with his dad.

And tomorrow he'd probably practice more in the backyard.

Because he wanted to.

Because it was fun.

Because he was good at it.

Because making his dad proud felt good, even when he knew it shouldn't.

Even when he knew what it meant.

Even when he knew he was adapting into someone new.

Someone named Noam who hit home runs and loved playing T-ball with his dad.

Someone who was less Ash every day.

And more himself—whoever that was now—every game he played.