I wrote this article which SC Living was gracious enough to publish in their August edition.
I didn’t arrive in Omaha as a Coastal Carolina fan. Living in Lexington, 90 minutes from the school’s Conway campus, I admired the Chanticleer baseball team’s gritty underdog spirit. But I wasn’t a true supporter—until that changed over three unforgettable days at the College World Series in June.I’ve been a lifelong baseball fanatic, playing through high school and college, chasing the game in amateur leagues and coaching at every level, including a 2012 state championship team in North Carolina. Baseball has always been a steadying force for me, where I find stability during life’s toughest moments.
The connection to baseball became the bridge that slowly closed the distance between my father, who battled demons, and me. There were nights when I bore the weight of his anger, when his drinking turned home into a hard and hollow space. Over time, baseball gave us a shared language when words failed. Now, with him gone, the game is both a comforting salve and an unhealed wound, connecting me to him through memories of what we shared and what we never resolved. A similar connection is now present between me and my daughter, Kiley.
Her love for baseball grew naturally, rooted in the dugouts she roamed as a child, watching her brother play and me coach. Though she didn’t play much, the game is in her bones, giving us a bond deeper than words. Dad passed on May 29, when Kiley was stuck in Omaha for a 10-week clinical rotation for her medical laboratory science program at Charleston Southern. Distance and scheduling left her unable to make the journey home for her Poppa’s funeral. It crushed her not to be able to say goodbye. Her quiet pain broke me in ways I wasn’t prepared for.
So, I turned to baseball, as I always have, to heal. The College World Series became more than a trip; it was a way for Kiley and me to help each other in the shadow of loss, through the game we both love.I bought tickets for the championship series before the field was set, before grief fully settled, hoping for something to believe in. When Coastal Carolina, a school just down the road from us, earned its spot in Omaha, it felt like fate. The team’s scrappy, resilient spirit became a symbol of fighting through pain, a beacon for us in our sorrow.
The Chanticleers were more than a team to us—they were a lifeline, helping us find peace amid our grief. The team’s journey through the tournament felt personal. They played with heart, fueled by grit and purpose, covered in teal. They burst into the best-of-three finals against an LSU program brimming with power and pedigree. We believed in the underdogs, we needed to believe, as their fight mirrored our own. The championship games were thrilling, gritty and hard-fought, a testament to Coastal’s character. They had a chance to pull off the upset, falling short but proving they belonged. I came to Omaha as a neutral observer.
I left a fan. Not just of a team but of a program, a coach and a culture that values the right qualities. Kiley and I cheered, hoped and connected through Coastal’s incredible run. Those moments in Omaha weren’t just about baseball. They were about father-daughter time, working through the pain of losing Poppa. We found solace in the stands, rallying for a team that embodied resilience. For that, I’ll be forever grateful to Coach Kevin Schnall and his players. They gave us healing, more than any championship ever could.
