As the game neared its conclusion, I kept barking out orders. I kept scrambling the defensive assignments. I sent runners. I tried anything that I could to help the team of 10-year-olds that I was coaching win.

Problem was, I just didn’t work. Nothing worked. Some days your playoff run simply comes to an end. Sunday was that day for my team. Our season was over.

Walking back to the car, I was tired and defeated. My sons walked by my side. My 15-year-old son, who had helped coach and watched the playoffs in their entirety, pleaded with me in very simple terms, “Dad, this should be your last year coaching.” Confused, I asked why. “You were so stressed,” he explained, “you looked really bad.” From his eyes, the game was beginning to take a psychological, as well as a physical, toll on me. Not what I wanted to hear, but sadly what I needed to hear.

Perhaps it was time to retire. Apparently, this Little League coach’s love of the game had turned into a bad relationship.