I tossed my cleats, visor, and leather glove into my duffle bag. Then I fired off a quick text. 

“First softball game of the season today. I’m nervous,” I wrote to my dad. 

Seconds later, he texted back.

“I’m sure you will be awesome. Just put those spikes on and the bat and glove on/in your hand and watch out,” he wrote. 

For 17 years now, this has become a ritual for me. When the summer rolls around, I find myself on a softball diamond having the time of my life. 

It started with Little League, then high school, then college, and now a slow-pitch softball (beer) league. When I look back at my life, softball has been one of the only constants for me outside God and family. 

This week is Women’s Sports Week. We celebrate the anniversary of Title IX, the 1972 landmark legislation that afforded women the equal opportunity to play sports.

53 years later, we unfortunately live in a world where the value and importance of protecting women’s sports are still debated. As biological men invade women’s teams and spaces, we hear concerns of safety and fairness.

But while these are important points, there is so much more to women’s sports. Women’s sports are about friendship and family. Learning failure, resilience, optimism, strength, and hard work. Community. Commitment. Softball gives girls opportunities, and in many cases, an education in things they can’t learn in schools.

I’m convinced that if the world understood just how meaningful women’s sports are to the trajectory of a girl’s life, there wouldn’t be much to debate at all. 

Last spring, one of my best friends walked down the aisle to marry the love of her life. Since graduating from college, I’ve been in several of my teammates’ weddings, but this one in particular had me reflecting.

Next to me at the altar stood my teammate, whom I call my “sis.” She taught me the ropes in the outfield when I was a freshman and she was a senior. On the other side of me, my teammate, with whom I rode to Catholic mass every Sunday. Another teammate stood nearby. She gave me my first tour when I came to Hillsdale. She picks up my calls no matter what hour of the day I give her a ring.

Just six years before, I was a senior in high school, unsure of where I would land upon graduation—until the then-Hillsdale College softball coach got a call to take a look at my game. 

It’s remarkable to me how my coach plucked each of us from various high-school teams across the country and brought us to one university. He was very intentional when choosing recruits. Of course, any coach is paid to win, first and foremost. (And we did, two championships in my four years.) But Coach was also very careful to ensure we would all mesh with each other, building a band of sisters and lifelong friends.

A little over a year later, that same friend I watched walk down the aisle is calling me Aunt Reagan as she FaceTimed me to show me her new baby.

All because I picked up a softball so many years ago. 

“June 9th. Seven years ago, we won the championship,” I texted one of my best friends with a photo of her and me holding the trophy. It was also the first state championship the larger district had won.

She quickly reminded me of what had happened on June 10th, eight years ago. We had lost the semifinal game on our way to the state championship. It was a devastating loss. All year, we had constantly reminded each other of that end goal—the state championship—by repeating “June 10th” over and over. 

Then we were stunned: We lost. 

But the next day, my high school teammates and I got together. We retreated to our home field and went back to practice. The next year, we had a new goal, June 9th. And there wasn’t a doubt that we would achieve it. 

Softball is a game of failure. If you succeed about 30% of the time, you’re considered a great player, and in the pros, that will get you into the hall of fame. 

It’s a game that I find constantly applicable to the real world. That initial state championship failure was perhaps one of the greatest lessons. It’s important in softball to learn from your mistakes, but to attack the next challenge instead of fixating on failure. 

What would have happened if I had quit softball somewhere along the way? If I had given up after I got cut from the junior varsity team? Or if I had abandoned my dream of playing college ball after I didn’t make the selective travel team? 

I’m confident that I wouldn’t have the great group of friends I have now, whether from high school, college, or even my post-graduate life. Slow-pitch softball is how I first made friends out here in D.C. It’s even where I first met my wonderful boyfriend. 

I’m also fairly confident that if I somewhere along the way decided to hang up the cleats, I wouldn’t even be the White House correspondent of the Daily Caller. 

Softball gave me an education at Hillsdale College that shaped me as a thinker and a believer. Hillsdale gave me connections and training in a cutthroat industry that have allowed me to succeed in my post-grad life.

But most of all, I’m thankful for how softball shaped my family. 

I spent countless hours in the car with my parents, especially my dad, driving to and from softball games and summer tournaments, touring colleges, and going to athletic camps. 

During the summer, my dad crafted something called “summer boot camp” and would take me up to the softball field, bright and early at 5 a.m. to get some practice in before he went off to work. Though he didn’t play much baseball himself, my dad studied YouTube videos and books to help coach me along in my game. 

It would be repetitive to explain to you how these moments impacted our relationship or how they shaped my character and my work ethic. But I constantly look back at these moments and smile. 

There are reminders every day of the impact the sport of softball has had on the trajectory of my life. It’s more than just the chance to win a championship or get a scholarship. 

Sports have the ability to shape the entire outlook of a young woman’s life, down to every single detail.

After the first slow-pitch softball game of the season, a new text from my dad was at the top of my phone. 

“How’d it go?” he asked. 

I quickly texted back some mediocre stats. He sent back some encouragement. 

“It’s game one,” he texted, already sensing that I was itching to be better.