The last at-bat: When it’s your son’s Senior Night, it hits different | Michael Lev

It was late May 2022. He was joining the Tucson High School summer club team. He was still playing Juniors (14U) for what was then known as Cactus Little League. And he had a bad stomach bug.

It was hot that afternoon, around 100 degrees, and there was no shade on the junior-varsity diamond at Cherry Field. Austin had been vomiting the day before, so it was debatable whether he should participate.

But it was the first practice, and you only get one chance to make a first impression. So we showed up, and Austin struggled his way through it. I stuck around in part because I wanted to see how he did, in part because I thought I might have to take him to the emergency room.

Austin survived the workout without having to go to the ER. And he kept showing up.

After-school practices. “Iron Badger” weightlifting sessions at 6:30 a.m. Games all over town, all over the state, all year-round.

Four years later, it all came to an end. Tucson High had its Senior Night this past Monday. It was a date I had been dreading.

Baseball has been a constant in our lives since Austin was 5 years old and began playing T-ball in Orange, California, where he was born. He played soccer one fall. He played basketball one winter. Neither stuck like baseball — which, not coincidentally, was my first sports love.

I accompanied him every step of the way. I was an assistant coach, a head coach, a batting coach, a mental coach. I was that parent who whips out their iPhone and films every single pitch of every single at-bat through the chain-link backstop.

I have about 500 videos of Austin batting in games or in our backyard, where we’d set up the bow net and get to work. First the tee, then soft toss, then mini-Wiffle balls. Always in that order.

We spent a lot of time, effort and money on baseball. Equipment. Uniforms. Private batting lessons. Hotel rooms.

There were times when we questioned whether it was worth it. Austin was never the best at any particular on-field skill. He wasn’t the biggest, the fastest or the most powerful. He wasn't going to play in college.

The longer he played, the harder it became. The summer between his sophomore and junior years was particularly difficult. He couldn’t do anything right. The vibe was off. He thought about quitting. In fact, he confided the other night, he thought about quitting many times.

But he never did. He stuck with it. He kept showing up.

At some point, reality set in and Austin accepted what his role would be. He’d never be the best hitter, fielder or pitcher. But he could be the Badgers’ best teammate.

My advice from the start was to make himself useful. He volunteered to play catcher, even though he didn’t really want to. Eventually, he became the bullpen catcher.

Austin was a spare receiver, an extra outfielder, an emergency infielder. He hyped up the dugout. He helped maintain the field.

When someone needed to read the American Legion Baseball code of sportsmanship, Austin was the first choice. When a teammate needed to be consoled, Austin was there for him. Tucson High coach Mark Morris named Austin one of two team captains for the 2025-26 season — knowing full well that he wouldn’t play very much.

As much as he wanted to play, Austin came to realize that he was part of something bigger. That he could contribute to the cause in his own way. That it wasn’t about him.

That’s a great lesson for parents, too, and one that I’ve tried to adopt. It’s not easy.

Nothing was more important over the past four years than attending Austin’s games and being there to support him — even though, once he made varsity, he rarely played. (His MaxPreps page shows nine career varsity at-bats. He went 3 for 9 with three RBIs. Not bad!)

That created an odd dynamic — rooting for blowouts, either way. In actuality, my wife and I became rabid Tucson High baseball fans. You become friends with your fellow parents. Every player feels like your son, in a way.

That’s why it was so heartbreaking when the Badgers’ season ended Monday. They had a chance to make the play-in round, but they lost their final two games. Every other result went against them. When the final out was recorded Monday night, that was it.

Coach Morris started Austin in right field, a much-appreciated gesture. He had one chance in the field, a blooper that he initially lost in the twilight, dove for, grabbed but then dropped when his body and glove slammed into the ground. He had one at-bat, working the count from 0-2 to 3-2 before taking a called third strike. Sometimes the pitcher just lands a slider at the knees.

We participated in the Senior Night ceremony, along with five other families. Coach Morris’ kind words about Austin — one of his all-time favorite players, he said — got me choked up. They still do.

The tears flowed later that night when Austin came home. We shared a long embrace — two men heaving and grieving over something we knew had been lost and never would be recaptured.

The next day, a wise man told me I shouldn’t analyze why I was so sad. The “why” didn’t really matter. My body was telling me something. Don’t question it. Just go with it.

But that conversation also revealed some deeper truths. My connection with my dad was through sports. It’s how my son and I bonded. Would our relationship become something less than it was without that connective tissue?

After that heartfelt hug Monday night, Austin thanked me for introducing him to baseball, for guiding him, for encouraging him in those dark, difficult times. We concluded that it was indeed worth it.

But I think he was wrong about one thing.

There’s no need to thank me, son. Thank you for stepping into the box again and again. Thank you for persevering. Thank you for providing so many indelible memories.

Thank you for showing up.