The first time I put a bat in my son’s hands and threw him a ball, he laced it off my chest. He’s always been able to hit, sometimes a lot, sometimes a little, but he could always hit.

Until we changed leagues last season. Suddenly, three games in, he had a lot of strikeouts and some weak grounders to the pitcher. It was the first extended slump of his young career, and it had him rattled.

It was also the first season I wasn’t in the dugout with him, purposely stepping back so my sons could take more ownership of their baseball journeys without me there. Against all my instincts, I didn’t correct his swing or critique his form from the bleachers or the car on the way home. I stayed quiet.

His frustration grew, and finally, he came to me and said, “Dad, what am I doing wrong?” We went to the field, and he listened to my instructions and fixed his swing. By the end of that session, he said to me, “That’s it, I’m back!”

A little humility goes a long way. How often do I struggle with something, telling myself and everyone else that “I’ve got it” when clearly I don’t? Meanwhile, someone who can help me is right there, just waiting for me to ask, but I’m too proud to do so.

My son hit two home runs the next game, including a grand slam with his brother standing on second base. And do you know what he said to me after the game? “Dad, I did what you told me.” All I could do was smile and hug him with tears in my eyes.

Where are you refusing to ask for help?