It was the bottom of the ninth with two out and we’re down by one. No, wait a minute. It was the bottom of the eighth with one out and we’re up by two. Or maybe we were tied with nobody out. Oh, screw it. For what I am about to say, the score is not the point.

Denver was playing Granite Valley, a little league powerhouse. The game was in Sterling, Colorado in the middle of summer. It was so hot you could fry an egg on the sidewalk. Except there aren’t any sidewalks in Sterling, just cows and cornfields and one of the largest prisons in the state. It’s safe to say that you wouldn’t drive from Denver to Sterling in July unless your kid was playing in a baseball tournament. Or, in my case, you’re also the coach.

Our catcher was sweltering under the blistering sun. Poor Max. His face was pale and splotchy and he tripped over his words. I slapped his cheeks and tried to get him to snap out of it, but his eye balls rolled back into his head. Now what? I walked him to the dugout and waved over a team parent sitting in the bleachers, a mom who happened to be a doctor. Not just any doctor, a neurosurgeon at a major hospital. She laid a wet towel over Max’s forehead and hooked him up with oral hydration. Would he feel better if he puked? I asked. I always felt better after I puked. No, I don’t think so, the neurosurgeon said as she moved a few paces away from me. Max is done playing. He’s got heat exhaustion. You’ll have to find a new catcher.

You ever hear the cliché when life gives you lemons you should make lemonade? I don’t buy that goody two shoes crap. A scotch and soda maybe, but not lemonade. Life is not always sweet and syrupy. Life is not full of nice and tidy connect-the-dot lessons. There’s no town called Eureka where I’m from. Every story does not have a happy ending with a white knight in shining armor.

Whatever. I’ll get off the couch now. So the game’s on the line and I’m short a catcher. My number one back-up is Joey but he’s already on the mound — he’s my pitcher. I can’t put him behind the plate. I looked down at my bench. Can any of you kids play catcher? I ask. They all shake their heads. Nope, it’s too hot.

You can’t play baseball without a catcher — this ain’t cricket with a bunch of English lads chasing foxes with their bugles and eating crumpets and what not. This is America, and you need a catcher, a gladiator who suits up with shin guards and a chest protector and wears a face mask and nut cup. You think anyone wears a nut cup in cricket? I don’t think so.

I have one last option in my arsenal, an ace in the hole when the dealer’s showing a paint card, so to speak. I make a motion to right field and wave the kid in. My right fielder sees me but just stands there with arms crossed. I clap my hands and yell chop chop Kimosabe, move your butt! This kid’s pulling a major attitude on me. Get in here! We need you to catch!

My so called secret weapon nonchalantly struts into the dugout and starts putting on the catcher’s gear, taking a sweet time about it. The bus is leaving, I say, vamos! We’re playing for state for crissakes! What’s taking you so long?

I’m fixing my pony tail, she says.

I left out a minor detail: My daughter Bella was on the team, the only girl in the all-star tournament. She’d been playing baseball with the boys since the age of four. Every year we’d try to get her to switch to softball with the other girls but no, she wanted nothing to do with softball. The ball’s too big, she’d say. It’s too heavy. She posted a note on her bathroom mirror: “I am a baseball player and will always be a baseball player.”

Bella played baseball for so long that it didn’t matter that she wore a pony tail and occasionally donned pink socks. There was that one time when one of her teammate’s made a snarky comment about her being a girl. I filed it away and when the next year rolled around I made sure the little piss pot was gone from the team.

It helped that Bella was actually a better ball player than a lot of the boys. She was a good left handed pull hitter and wasn’t shy at the plate. It also helped that she loved playing catcher, one of the hardest positions in the game. It probably didn’t help that I was her coach. The older she got, the less she listened.

The year she turned ten I agreed to coach one of Denver’s three all-star teams in the state tournament. It’s kind of a big deal — all-stars from every corner of Colorado are in the tourney and you better believe they come to win. The folks in Denver tend to think we’re the center of the baseball universe, but when we show up to play in places like Yuma, La Junta, Fountain, and Florence, believe me those boys from the high plains don’t give a lick about our fancy indoor batting cages and opening day tickets to Rockies games. They want to kick our ass.

Driving up to Sterling I warned Bella about boys who grow up in small towns. They play baseball in their backyards eight hours a day seven days a week. They’re not like kids from the city, I told her, with your neighborhood pools and swim teams and soccer camps and you go out for gelato afterwards. There’s a reason why so many baseball greats like Mickey Mantle and Willie Mays came from a dot on the map like East Podunk. The Baseball Hall of Fame is in Cooperstown, for crissakes. Park Hill is bigger than Cooperstown.

Who’s Willie Mays, she asked.

You never heard of Say Hey Willie Mays? One of the greatest ball players who ever lived. He could catch a fly ball over his shoulder while running full tilt like he was catching a touchdown pass.

Does he play for the Rockies? she asked.

No, he doesn’t play for the Rockies, I said. My point is, Bella, you may not get to play catcher this weekend.

Why not? She asked. That’s my position!

Because we need you in right field, I said. That’s an important position too.

That’s a load of bull, she said. You stick the kids who can’t field in right field.

That’s not true. I played right field when I was your age, I said.

Dad, you told me yourself you could never catch a pop fly. That you had quote- unquote spatial issues.

I had a problem with depth perception, I said. It was the Coke bottle glasses.

I played catcher all year, she said. It’s not fair.

I took a deep breath. Bella, I said, if you really want to know, it’s because you can’t make the throw down to second base. Your arm’s not strong enough.

What do you mean? She said. I throw down to second all the time.

Just barely, I told her. And in this tournament the bases are five feet deeper. And this weekend there won’t be any loopy kids chasing butterflies. When a hitter from Lamar gets on first base they’re going to steal second in a heartbeat.

Dad, I can make that throw, she said. I’ll show you.

I’m sorry, I said. Max is our catcher.

By the time we hit Fort Morgan — forty five minutes short of Sterling — the tears had stopped flowing but she was still kicking the back of my car seat. We checked into the Comfort Inn and Bella jumped in the pool with the boys. I thought we put the matter behind us.

Now you’re up to speed on the pickle I was in. Granite Valley had a runner on first, it was a close ball game, and my starting catcher was on the bench in desperate need of an ice cold slushy from Seven Eleven. The other team’s coach must have turned thirty shades of purple during the game, screaming at the umps, his players, even our kids. They were supposed to have mercy-ruled us by now and sent us home packing. They should’ve been in downtown Sterling gorging on the all-you-can eat pie at the Village Inn. We were Denver’s C-Team in the tournament — I’ll let that designation speak for itself. No one from our team, player or coach had ever been to state. No one expected us to be giving Granite Valley a run for their money this late in the game.

Back in the dugout, Bella finally fixed her pony tail, pulled on her catcher’s mask, and strode up to home plate like she owned the place. She wasn’t on the field ten seconds when I heard the Granite Valley coach having a full-on spasm attack. “She’s a girl, she’s a girl, they put a girl behind the plate!” he yelled. The guy had steam pouring out of his ears like a Road Runner cartoon. No shit Sherlock, I put a girl behind the plate. The coach was motioning wildly to his runner at first base, waving his arms like a traffic cop at a green light. Every player on the field, every fan in the bleachers, every diner sitting in a Sterling restaurant eating chicken fried steak knew that the runner on first was going to steal second on the next pitch because there was a girl behind the plate.

In the interest of full disclosure, I should confess that I’ve never been a paragon of model parenting. I helicopter too much and my wife has warned that if I don’t lighten up I will lose my mind. When my kids were born I didn’t read all of the books on my night stand that I should’ve read. When we were freaking out with three kids in diapers my wife and I took the requisite Love and Logic class and I grudgingly accepted that it’s a good thing to let your kids fall down and pick themselves back up by their muddy bootstraps and let them cope with failure. We can’t fight their fights, we can’t keep them in a protective bubble. They’re going to fall down and they’re going to survive. I got it.

I stood near the entrance to the dugout clutching my stomach and not holding my breath but not quite breathing either, suspended in time. I remember hoping beyond hope that the other coach would just pipe down.

The ump signaled to play ball.

Bella took her squatting position behind home plate. Joey started his wind up. The runner on first was down in a three point stance like he was at a track meet. The Granite Valley coach was punch drunk with excitement. I rubbed my forehead waiting for the pitch.

Joey threw a hard inside fast ball, the batter stepped in the bucket, and the runner took off for second base. Bella caught Joey’s pitch, took a giant step forward, cocked her arm and lofted a rainbow to the sky. The ball’s trajectory sailed like a fly fisherman’s cast in a graceful arc towards second base and landed precisely where the short stop had positioned his glove in front of the bag. All at once the runner slid into base, there was a burst of dust, our short stop caught the ball in a sweeping motion and tagged the runner. The ump jumped up and made the call.

OUT!

Did you see that? She threw him out! Bella threw out the runner! Her teammates roared, Denver fans in the bleachers cheered, and even a few moms from Granite Valley clapped their hands. Bella did it. I was never so happy to have been proven wrong.

Bella held up two fingers and yelled “Two out, plays at first!” as she took her position behind home plate. If she was surprised or elated, she didn’t show it. She had a game to play.

This was a story about a trip I took to Sterling with my daughter when she was ten. You know the part about not knowing the score? I lied. I knew exactly what the score was. Don’t kid yourself. The game meant a lot to the kids and they deserved it. But this story was never about winning or losing. It’s about small things in life that become big things. It’s about a father holding his breath and hoping his daughter will show the world what she’s made of when the chips are down. It’s about watching a daughter grow up in front of your eyes.

Remember when I said that there were no happy endings in real life? That was bull. There are plenty of happy endings. As well as happy beginnings.

• Jay Solomon