Walsh Family Universe V2

Third grade meant moving up in sports. Not just skill level—actual leagues, actual competition, actual stakes.

"You made the all-star team!" Coach Williams announced at the end of spring tryouts. "Congratulations, Noam. You're one of only three eight-year-olds who made it. The rest are nine and ten."

Ash felt a surge of genuine pride. The all-star team played against other cities, traveled for tournaments, practiced three times a week instead of two.

It was serious baseball.

"This is huge, buddy," Dad said when Ash told him in the car. "All-star team at eight years old. That's really impressive."

"Coach says I'm starting shortstop."

"Of course you are. You're the best defensive player they have." Dad was beaming. "We'll need to adjust the practice schedule. Three times a week, plus games on weekends. Can you handle that with swimming?"

Ash didn't even hesitate. "Yeah. I can handle it."

Swimming had gotten more competitive too. He'd moved up to the advanced group for eight-to-tens, training four days a week. His coach, Miss Sarah, had started timing him seriously, talking about records and regional meets.

"Your freestyle is getting really strong," she'd said last week. "If you keep improving at this rate, you might qualify for state championships next year."

State championships. The words had made something flutter in Ash's chest—excitement, nervousness, pride.

He was good at this. Really good.

And he loved it.

The first all-star practice was intense. The older kids were bigger, faster, more skilled. The coaches—Coach Williams and two assistants—didn't baby anyone.

"This isn't recreational league anymore," Coach Williams said at the start. "You're here because you're the best. We practice hard, we play harder, and we expect excellence. Everyone understand?"

"Yes, Coach!" the team shouted.

They ran drills for two hours. Grounders until Ash's legs burned. Batting practice until his hands were sore even through his batting gloves. Base running sprints until he thought he might throw up.

It was exhausting.

It was amazing.

"Good hustle, Walsh!" one of the assistant coaches called as Ash dove for a grounder. "That's the kind of effort we need!"

In the car afterward, Ash was sweaty and tired and happy.

"How was it?" Mom asked.

"Hard. Really hard. But good."

"Are the older kids nice?"

"They're okay. One of them—Tyler, he's ten—helped me with my batting stance. Said my back elbow was too high." Ash adjusted his backpack. "We have practice again Thursday."

"And swim practice tomorrow," Mom reminded him. "You're going to be busy."

Busy was good. Busy meant less time sitting in class learning things he already knew. Busy meant using his body, competing, improving.

Busy meant feeling like a normal kid.

By mid-April, Ash's schedule was packed:

Monday: Swim practice 4-5:30 PM
Tuesday: All-star baseball practice 5-7 PM
Wednesday: Swim practice 4-5:30 PM
Thursday: All-star baseball practice 5-7 PM
Friday: Swim practice 4-5:30 PM
Saturday: Baseball games (usually double-headers)
Sunday: Swim meets (twice a month)

Homework got squeezed into the car between activities or late at night after practice. Ash got good at doing math worksheets with wet hair, still smelling like chlorine.

"Are you sure this isn't too much?" Mom asked one Wednesday evening as they rushed from swim practice to grab dinner before baseball.

"I'm fine."

"You're doing homework at 9 PM."

"It's just spelling. I can do spelling half-asleep." Ash took a bite of his sandwich. "I like being busy."

And he did. The constant activity meant less time to think about being thirty years old in an eight-year-old's body. Less time to count down the days remaining. Less time to feel the weight of his situation.

When he was running bases or swimming laps, he was just an athlete. Just a kid doing sports.

It was the closest thing to freedom he had.

The first all-star tournament was in May, a weekend trip to a town two hours away. The team stayed in a hotel, four kids to a room with a parent chaperone.

Ash ended up rooming with Tyler (the ten-year-old), Marcus (his friend from school who'd also made all-stars), and a nine-year-old named Jake. Dad was their chaperone.

"This is so cool!" Marcus bounced on the bed. "We get our own room! Well, not our own, but you know what I mean."

Tyler was already claiming the bed by the window. "Tournament rules: no staying up past lights out, no being loud after 10 PM, and everyone has to help carry equipment."

"Yes, sir," Jake said, saluting sarcastically.

The tournament was a different level of baseball. Teams from all over the region, kids who'd been training since they were toddlers, parents who took it very seriously.

"Remember," Coach Williams said before their first game, "you earned your spot here. Don't be intimidated. Play your game."

Ash started at shortstop. The first batter hit a sharp grounder right to him. He fielded it cleanly, threw to first. Out.

"That's how you start!" Coach Williams called from the dugout.

They won that game 7-4. Ash went 2-for-3 with a double and scored twice.

The second game was harder. The opposing team had a pitcher who could actually throw curves—not well, but enough to throw Ash's timing off. He struck out his first at-bat.

"Shake it off!" Dad called from the stands. "Next time!"

Next time, Ash watched the first pitch—curve, outside. Watched the second—fastball, inside. The third pitch came in straight and he was ready.

Crack.

The ball sailed over the left fielder's head. Ash ran, legs pumping, rounding first, heading for second. The throw was coming but he was faster. Slid into second base just ahead of the tag.

"SAFE!" The umpire called.

Tyler, on first base, scored. Marcus, who'd been on third, scored too. Ash's double had tied the game.

They won in extra innings, 6-5.

"Clutch hitting, Walsh!" Tyler high-fived him in the dugout. "That double was huge!"

That night in the hotel, the boys were too excited to sleep. Dad had fallen asleep in the other bed, snoring softly, but the four of them talked in whispers about the games.

"Did you see that catch Jake made?" Marcus said. "That was insane."

"Your double was better," Jake said to Ash. "That pitcher thought he had you."

"I just got lucky," Ash said, though it wasn't entirely luck. He'd recognized the pattern in the pitcher's throws, adjusted his timing, waited for the right pitch. Adult strategic thinking in a kid's body.

"No way. That was skill." Tyler propped himself up on his elbow. "You're really good, Noam. Like, really really good. Coach says you might make regionals next year."

"Regionals?"

"The regional all-star team. It's like... the best of the best. They play in the state tournament." Tyler's voice was awed. "My brother made it when he was eleven. It's a huge deal."

Ash felt that flutter again. Regionals. State tournament. Real competition at a high level.

He wanted that.

"Do you think I could make it?" Ash asked.

"If you keep playing like this? Definitely." Tyler yawned. "But we should sleep. We have two more games tomorrow."

They won one and lost one the next day, finishing third in the tournament. Each player got a medal and a team photo.

On the drive home, Ash fell asleep in the backseat, his medal still around his neck, his muscles pleasantly sore from two days of hard baseball.

Swimming championships came two weeks later. Ash had qualified for four events: 50m freestyle, 100m freestyle, 50m backstroke, and 4x50m freestyle relay.

"Nervous?" Miss Sarah asked before his first race.

"A little."

"Good. Nerves mean you care. Just swim your race. Don't worry about anyone else." She squeezed his shoulder. "You've got this."

The 50m freestyle was first. Ash stood on the block, waiting for the whistle. His heart pounded. The pool stretched out before him, impossibly long.

BEEP

He dove. The water was cold and perfect. His arms pulled, his legs kicked, his breathing found its rhythm. The wall approached and he flipped, pushed off, powered through the final length.

He touched the wall and looked up at the board.

Third place. Out of eight swimmers.

"Nice swim!" Miss Sarah called. "You dropped two seconds off your best time!"

The 100m freestyle was harder. Longer. By the final length, his arms felt like lead and his lungs burned.

But he finished. Fifth place. Still a decent swim.

The backstroke was his best event. He'd always found something meditative about swimming on his back, watching the ceiling pass by, feeling the water move around him.

He won his heat. Second overall in his age group.

A real, actual medal.

"I knew you could do it!" Miss Sarah was beaming. "Second place in backstroke at championships! Noam, that's incredible!"

The relay was last. Ash swam the anchor leg, bringing the team home in fourth place.

After the meet, Mom and Dad took him out for ice cream with Sophie—now five years old and chatty.

"Uncle Noam won a medal!" Sophie announced to the ice cream shop worker. "He's really fast!"

"Second place," Ash corrected, but he was grinning.

"That's amazing, buddy," Dad said. "Second place at championships. In a pool full of eight and nine and ten-year-olds. You should be proud."

Ash was proud. Genuinely, uncomplicatedly proud.

He'd worked hard. Trained four days a week. Pushed through exhaustion and sore muscles and early morning practices.

And he'd earned this medal.

"Are you doing baseball and swimming again next year?" Sophie asked through a mouthful of ice cream.

"Definitely."

"Both?" Mom asked. "That's a lot of commitment."

"I can handle it. I want to make regionals for baseball and maybe qualify for state championships for swimming." Ash took a bite of his ice cream. "Coach Williams thinks I have a shot at regionals if I keep improving. And Miss Sarah says my times are getting competitive for state."

Dad and Mom exchanged a glance.

"That's wonderful," Mom said. "We're so proud of how dedicated you are. Just remember, if it ever gets to be too much—"

"It won't," Ash interrupted. "I love it. Both of them."

And he did. Loved the competition, the teamwork, the clear metrics of success. Loved using his body, pushing his limits, being good at something that wasn't diminished by his adult consciousness.

When he hit a baseball or swam a race, it didn't matter that he was mentally thirty. His body was eight, and that was what counted.

The end-of-year sports banquet in June honored both baseball and swimming achievements. Ash received awards for both:

Baseball: Most Improved Player, All-Star Team Member, Defensive Player of the Year
Swimming: Most Dedicated Swimmer, Bronze Medal - 50m Backstroke (Regional Championships)

Standing on the stage with his teammates, holding his trophies, Ash looked out at the crowd. Mom and Dad in the front row, beaming. Sophie on Mom's lap, clapping enthusiastically. Some of his siblings had even come—Eden and Cathy, taking pictures.

This was his. Not Ash-pretending-to-be-Noam's. Just his.

He'd earned these awards through actual work, actual improvement, actual dedication.

"Noam Walsh is the kind of athlete every coach dreams of," Coach Williams said into the microphone. "Talented, hard-working, coachable, and a great teammate. I can't wait to see what he accomplishes in the years to come."

The room applauded. Ash felt his face flush with pride and embarrassment.

After the banquet, Eden hugged him. "Look at you, Mr. All-Star. I remember when you could barely hit the ball off the tee."

"That was five years ago," Ash protested.

"I know! You've come so far." Eden looked at all his awards. "You're really good at this sports thing."

"Yeah," Ash said, surprised by how true it felt. "I really am."

That night, arranging his new trophies on his bookshelf—which was getting crowded with sports memorabilia—Ash thought about the year.

All-star team. Regional championships. Tournament medals. Swimming awards.

Hours and hours of practice. Early mornings, late nights, sore muscles, exhaustion.

And worth every second.

"My name is Ash," he whispered to his room. "I'm thirty years old. This year I was an all-star shortstop and won a bronze medal in swimming."

The words felt less contradictory now. Yes, he was thirty. But he was also eight. And this eight-year-old had worked incredibly hard to earn these awards.

Both things were true.

Both things could be true.

Five thousand and twenty-two days to go.

But today he'd been honored at a sports banquet. Had trophies and medals bearing his name—Noam Walsh, athlete, competitor, winner.

Had parents who were proud. Siblings who were impressed. Coaches who believed in him.

Had a sport—two sports—where he excelled not because of his adult mind but because of hard work and dedication and his body's natural capabilities.

Tomorrow was the last day of third grade. Then summer would start, and with it, summer baseball league and intensive swim training.

More practices. More games. More meets. More opportunities to be just an athlete.

Just Noam, running bases and swimming laps and living fully in a body that finally worked the way it should.

He fell asleep surrounded by trophies and medals, dreaming of next year's regional team and state championships.

Dreams built on sweat and chlorine and the satisfying crack of a bat hitting a ball perfectly.

Dreams that were entirely, completely his own.