By Tammi Pitzen, Executive Director of the Children’s Advocacy Center of Jackson County
Baseball and the Power of One Caring Adult
This is story #14 in Tammi Pitzen’s series of 30 stories from her 30 years working in child welfare.
You can read all the stories here.
This series is a reflection over a 30 plus year career in child abuse interventions. Some are stories that help to understand real life impacts of
that career and vicarious trauma. Some stories are just that. Stories of pivotal moments in that career that propelled me to continue the
work even when it seemed impossible.
Baseball and the Power of One Caring Adult
I wish I had a dime for every time someone asked why I chose to work with children who have experienced the trauma of abuse, or a nickel for every time someone asked how I’ve lasted more than thirty years in this field. I could do a lot of good with that kind of money!
There are a million ways I could answer, and they’d all be true. But today, in the midst of the MLB playoffs, my answer is simple: baseball.
I love baseball. I never played much because I couldn’t consistently hit the ball, I wasn’t a fast runner, and, if I’m completely honest, I was afraid to catch it when it came flying toward me at the speed of lightning. But I still love the game.
Why? Because for much of my childhood, on Friday or Saturday nights (and sometimes both), I’d load up a folding lawn chair in the back of my dad’s old Ford pickup and head to the little league fields. Most of my friends were out there playing, but I was perfectly happy sitting beside my dad, feet propped up on the fence, cracking sunflower seeds, and watching the games.
I love baseball because my dad loves baseball. Because those nights at the ballpark were ours. He’d teach me the rules and explain the calls. As I got older, I went to fewer games, but my dad never stopped. He kept showing up to cheer on those kids I’d grown up with. He knew their stats, their strengths, and their stories.
Even now, baseball is woven into who I am. My family goes to a Mariners game every year. My dad plans his life around their schedule. Most game nights, you’ll find him on the couch, eyes fixed on the TV. During this year’s playoffs, I’ve kept my phone close so I can text him when Cal Raleigh or Julio Rodríguez hits a home run, or when the Mariners are down by ten.
For some people, baseball is just a game. For me, it’s family, connection, and love. It’s hours of quiet companionship, sitting side by side with my dad, no phone in my hand, just fully present.
Baseball taught me trust, consistency, and the comfort of knowing someone would always be there.
I didn’t set out to work in child protection. A series of small, seemingly insignificant choices led me here. But what’s kept me here, what’s anchored me through the hardest days, is baseball. At least today it is, tomorrow I may have a different answer.
You might wonder how the two connect. It took me years to understand it myself.
When I was in college, I realized what a gift it was to have a dad who showed up. A dad who didn’t disappear when things got hard. A dad I could depend on, not only to sit in silence beside me at a ball game, but to drive two hours to pick me up when my car broke down on a lonely highway.
That’s what I want for every child I work with: the steady presence of a caring adult. When that can’t be a parent, we try to help children connect with someone who can fill that role – a foster parent, a teacher, a coach, a mentor. That is why I chose to stay steady in the field of child protection.
Research now proves what I felt instinctively all those years ago: one caring adult can change the world for a struggling child.
Every child “in the system” is just one caring adult away from hope and healing.
Think about that. Think about the children in your life, your neighbors, your grandchildren, your child’s classmates, your best friend’s kids. Each of us has the power to be that caring adult who helps a child find resilience, acceptance, and happiness, even when those things seem out of reach.
