Everything they left
for you. All at once.

You were so nervous this morning. You didn't need to be. You never do.

I'm 34 years old right now. I live in the house on Maple Street. I drink too much coffee and I'm not as patient as I want to be and I love your mother more than I know how to say. My back hurts when it rains. I still think about quitting and starting that woodworking thing. I probably won't.

I want you to know who I was when you were small. Because by the time you hear this I'll be different. You'll have only ever known grown-up Dad. This is young Dad — scared and proud and completely unprepared for how much a five-year-old could make him feel like everything was going to be okay.

That was you today. Backpack almost as big as you were. Waved goodbye without looking back. I cried in the car.

I love you more than any words I know. Happy 18th, Em. I hope the world has been good to you.

Kid, I'm sitting in the bleachers right now and I'm shaking. You just hit it over the left field fence and you stood there for a second before you ran — like you couldn't believe it either. I could. I've always been able to.

I've never been more sure of anything — you're going to do something great with this life. I don't know what it is. I don't think you know yet either. But I've been watching you since before you could walk and there is something in you that doesn't know how to quit.

Remember that when it gets hard. And it will get hard. That's not a threat — that's just the deal. But you have that thing. That whatever-it-is. I've seen it.

Proud of you today and every day, Em. Now go run the bases.

You're asleep upstairs. It's Christmas Eve and you're twelve and you still believe, just barely, and I can't bring myself to be the one who changes that.

I want to tell you something I don't say enough. You are the best thing I have ever done. Not because of anything you've accomplished — because of who you are when nobody's watching. The way you check on your friends. The way you remember things that matter to other people. The way you laughed at dinner tonight until milk came out of your nose and then laughed harder because of that.

I hope when you hear this you are happy. Really happy — not performing happiness, not settling for fine. If you're not, please call me. I will always pick up.

Eighteen years ago I had no idea what I was doing. I still don't. But I have never once doubted that you were exactly who you were supposed to be.

I love you endlessly, baby girl. Merry Christmas from 2036.

Emma. I've coached a lot of kids. I mean a lot. And every once in a while one comes along who makes you remember why you do this job.

You were that kid for me. Not because you were the most talented — though you were good, real good — but because of the way you showed up. Every practice. Every early morning. Every time it would've been easier to quit.

Whatever you do next, bring that with you. The world has plenty of talented people. It doesn't have nearly enough people who simply refuse to stop showing up.

You're going to be fine, kid. More than fine. I'd bet on you any day.