It doesn't happen all at once. It's gradual. One weekend you're a normal person with hobbies and friends. The next weekend you're in a lawn chair at 7 AM debating pitch counts with a stranger named Dave. Here are the signs.
Your calendar is no longer yours
Someone asks if you're free Saturday. You laugh. You haven't been free on a Saturday since October. Your weekends are booked through July. You know the tournament schedule better than your own work schedule. Your spouse has stopped asking “What are we doing this weekend?” because the answer is always the same.
Your car tells the story
There are three batting gloves under the passenger seat. A cleat is in the door pocket. The trunk has a permanent layer of infield dirt. You found a sunflower seed in the air vent. The car smells like a combination of pine tar and Febreze. You have given up. The car belongs to baseball now.
You have opinions about coolers
Strong opinions. You have researched cooler brands. You know the difference between a 45-quart and a 65-quart. You have a preferred ice-to-drink ratio. You judge other parents by their cooler setup. Someone showed up with a Styrofoam cooler and you physically recoiled. This is not who you were two years ago.
You speak in acronyms
USSSA. PG. OBP. ERA. OPS. UPZ. Your non-baseball friends have no idea what you're talking about. You tried explaining what a “pool play tiebreaker based on run differential” is at a dinner party. People stopped inviting you to dinner parties. You didn't notice because you had a tournament that weekend anyway.
You have a chair strategy
You know exactly where to sit at every complex you've visited. Field 3 has shade at 2 PM. Field 1 has a good angle for filming. The bleachers on Field 4 are a trap — no back support and full sun. You set up early. You have a system. You bring a backup chair in case someone needs one, because you are now The Veteran and The Veteran always has a spare.
Your phone storage is 97% baseball
You have 4,000 photos from the last two seasons. Approximately 12 of them are in focus. You have 47 slow-motion videos of your kid's swing from slightly different angles, all of which look identical. You have screenshots of brackets, schedules, field maps, and a radar image from a tournament that was rained out in April. You cannot delete any of them.
Sunday night hits different
You get home. The gear is in the hallway. The laundry pile is enormous. Your body hurts from sitting in a chair for 16 hours. You have a sunburn in the shape of your sunglasses. You are exhausted. And somewhere around 9 PM, while you're folding tiny baseball pants, you check the schedule for next weekend. Not because you have to. Because you want to.
That's the realization. You're not doing this for your kid anymore. You're doing it for you too. And that's completely fine.
You didn't choose the travel ball life. The travel ball life chose you. And honestly? You'd choose it back.
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