My father put six brand-new baseball gloves on the picnic table.

The modern youth sports complex is a masterclass in middle-class anxiety.

On Wednesday night, before the school game, I had to stop by the county park to drop off some paperwork for the summer league recreation board, of which I was a reluctant volunteer member. The park had eight fields, each lit by towering stadium lights, buzzing with the sound of synthetic turf shoes and matching designer bat bags.

Scott’s team was running drills on Field 3.

I stood near the concession stand, sipping a bitter black coffee, watching from a distance. Scott was pacing the infield in crisp team-issued shorts and a matching dry-fit pullover. He carried a radar gun in his left hand and a stopwatch around his neck.

"Drive the hips! Drive the hips!" Scott roared at a twelve-year-old pitcher who looked like he hadn't slept in three days. "That’s seventy-one! You're losing velocity on the back end, Cooper! If you aren't hitting seventy-four by July, you're not seeing tournament innings!"

A couple of travel team parents were gathered near the bleachers, clutching oversized Yeti tumblers and talking in low, urgent tones.

"Did you hear about Aaron's boy?" one mother whispered. I recognized her—Karen, whose husband donated thousands to sponsor the team's tournament jerseys. "Scott said he just couldn't handle the travel commitments. Dropped down to the public school team."

"Such a shame," another parent replied, adjusting her sunglasses. "He had a decent arm. But some kids just lack that competitive fire. If you don't commit early, you're dead in the water for high school recruitment."

I felt a cold rage prickling the back of my neck, but I didn't step forward. Engaging with the cult of youth travel sports was like arguing with a thunderstorm. To these parents, childhood was an investment portfolio, and every inning sat on a spreadsheet. Scott had built his kingdom by feeding that exact paranoia.

As I turned to leave, Scott spotted me. He blew his whistle, tossed the radar gun to an assistant coach, and jogged over to the chain-link gate.

"Aaron," he called out, wiping sweat from his forehead with a branded wristband. "Didn't expect to see you around competitive ball anymore."

"Just dropping off paperwork, Scott."

He leaned against the fence, lowering his voice. "Look, about Dad’s birthday. I told him he shouldn't have done the glove thing in front of everyone. That was old-school Arthur taking things too far. But you can't blame me for the situation. Owen broke protocol."

"Protocol?" I scoffed. "He's thirteen years old, Scott."

"He was my number two pitcher!" Scott shot back, his voice dropping into a harsh, defensive hiss. "I had scouts from two private high school prep academies coming to the Columbus Invitational to watch our rotation. When Owen bailed, I had to bring up a kid from the B-team who gave up eight earned runs in two innings. It made our entire program look disorganized."

"So this was never about Owen," I said, a grim smile touching my lips. "This was about your reputation. Your little brand."

"My brand gets these kids scholarships, Aaron! What is the middle school going to give him? Orange slices and a participation ribbon?"

"It gives him his mother on Sundays," I said, stepping right up to the fence until our faces were barely inches apart. "And it gives him the joy of playing the game without an adult using him as an emotional stepping stone."

Scott sneered. "I hear Coach Miller entered you guys into the Mid-Summer Invitational next month."

"He did."

"Tell Miller to save his bus fare. We're seeded number one. If you guys end up in our bracket, it won't be baseball, Aaron. It'll be a slaughter. And I'd hate for Owen to quit two teams in one summer."

I looked at my brother—really looked at him. The boy I used to play catch with until streetlights flickered on had completely vanished, replaced by an arrogant, insecure man terrified of losing control.

"Don't worry about Owen, Scott," I said quietly. "Just make sure your boys know how to hit an off-speed pitch. Because he hasn't forgotten how to throw one."