During one of the worst losing streaks of my career, our team president walked into my office. Keli McGregor. One of the best men I've ever known. He could have come to vent. To question my decisions. To ask hard questions. Instead, he said: "Cut to the chase, Clint. What's next?" I looked him in the eye and gave him two words: "Shower well." The Colorado Rockies were struggling badly that year. Pregame preparation was solid. Scout meetings, early work, attention to detail. All of it was there. But at game time, the tires were flat. I told Keli: the game did everything it could to us today. We just couldn't meet its demands. Now it was time to reset. "Shower well" means exactly this: • Watch the frustration circle down the drain • Shampoo, rinse, repeat and get the grime of today completely off your mind • Walk out clean, go home, and actually rest Leave it at the ballpark. The game is over. There's nothing left to solve tonight. Keli nodded. Asked if he could share it with the whole organization. I said sure. And then it hit me. This isn't just for baseball. Bad day at the office. Grumpy boss. Missed deadline. Traffic on the way home. You can carry all of that through your front door. Or you can shower well. I've never seen a single problem get better because someone dragged it home with them. The reset is a discipline. Same as preparation. Same as showing up. Either we win. Or we learn. The only real loss? When you don't take a single thing out of a hard day. So tonight, whatever kind of day it was, shower well. Tomorrow is a new at-bat. What does your reset look like? I'd love to hear it.

We witnessed one of the most amazing moments you'll ever see at a high school event tonight at Schneider Arena. Colin Dorgan, who lost his mother, brother & grandfather in the Lynch Arena shooting last month, scores a 2OT game-winner to send his team to the @RIIL_sports D-II championship game. Incredible resilience from this young man & this BVS team. Fortunate to call this emotional moment with Marty Crowley tonight on the NFHS Network. @SRASaints @PCDAthletics @Fic27

Just thought it was kind to share this! 😭❤ I'm a substitute teacher. Different school every week. Kids never remember your name. You're just "the sub." Last year, I got assigned to a rough middle school. 8th grade English. The regular teacher left a note: "Good luck with Marcus. Sits in the back. Won't participate. Don't push it." First day, I spot Marcus immediately. Hood up, headphones in, head down on the desk. I didn't call him out. Just started class. Halfway through, I'm reading a poem about loneliness. I see his head lift slightly. He's listening. After class, everyone leaves. Marcus stays behind, packing slowly. "You actually like poetry?" I ask. He shrugs. "It's whatever." "That poem I read—Langston Hughes. You know his stuff?" "A little." He pauses. "My mom used to read it to me." "Used to?" "She died two years ago. Cancer." My heart sank. "I'm so sorry, Marcus." He shrugged again, but I could see his jaw tighten. "It's fine. Everyone says that." "What if instead of saying sorry, I just... brought more poems tomorrow? We could talk about them if you want." He didn't answer. Just walked out. But the next day, he came to class early. Sat in the front. No hood. No headphones. For the next two weeks (I extended my assignment), Marcus and I had this routine. After class, we'd spend 15 minutes talking about poetry, life, grief. He told me about his mom. How she worked two jobs but still made time to read to him every night. How the house felt empty without her voice. How his dad tried but didn't really know how to talk about feelings. "She'd want you to keep going," I said one day. "Keep reading. Keep feeling. That's how you keep her alive." On my last day, Marcus handed me a folded piece of paper. "I wrote something," he mumbled. "You don't have to read it now." I waited until I got to my car. Unfolded it. It was a poem. About his mom. About loss. About learning to breathe again. It was beautiful. Raw. Real. I drove back into the school. Found him in the hallway. "Marcus, this is incredible. Have you shown this to anyone?" "No. It's stupid." "It's not. It's powerful. You have a gift." He looked at me like I'd just told him he could fly. I helped him submit it to a youth poetry contest. Didn't tell him. Three months later, I got an email. Marcus won second place. $500 prize and publication in a national magazine. I texted his dad (got the number from the school). He called me crying. "He hasn't smiled in two years. He's smiling now." Sometimes all someone needs is to be seen. To be heard. To be told their pain matters. "I hope this story reminds you that good people still exist.

TreVeyon Henderson HOUSE CALL 💨 Peep the block from Drake Maye 👀 (via @Patriots)

This Christian Elliss hit belongs on a coaching tape xitter.cf/ThrowbackPATS/status/1…