(I originally wrote this blog back in October, but had a hard time re-reading and editing it. After a recent adolescent health scare in my own extended family - that story, unlike the one you're about to read, had a happy ending - I felt it was the right time to revisit and share this.)

I've lived a ridiculously charmed life so far, and because of that I am a default optimist at almost all times. As a result, the stories I tell in my blogs are always positive and lined with a sense of hope for a better youth sports world for our kids.

But sometimes life is unfair and cruel, and today I want to share a tragic story that will not be easy to write, but that in the spirit of optimism and hope, might give all us parents something of immense value.

I'll just rip the Band-Aid off; one of my best friends and closest teammates from college lost his 2 year old son a couple of weeks ago.

Dutch was diagnosed with Leukemia right around his 1st birthday and then spent basically every day of the entire next year of his life in the hospital going through aggressive and truly awful chemotherapy treatments. Tragically, he passed a few weeks ago, just after his 2nd birthday.

The pain that my friend Sam and his wife are experiencing right now is a pain that I literally cannot wrap my head around. Their hearts are permanently broken.

From the day Sam shared the horrible news of Dutch's diagnosis with me, I have stayed in regular contact with him lending whatever love and support I could from 3000 miles away. And now, only a few weeks after Dutch's funeral, I continue check in with Sam regularly.

Most times when I reached out to him, I had no idea what to say, other than to remind him how much love for him, Dutch, and their family there was, and to try to be continued source of hope that Dutch would win his battle. Sam told me that support helped. I hope it did.

A few days ago, when Sam let me know that Dutch had passed, words were even harder to come by. They say having to bury your own child is the worst thing in the world and now having been a witness to that pain, albeit from a distance, I'm absolutely positive that is the truth.

There's nothing anyone can say or do to take away Sam's pain.

Sam spent every single day of Dutch's time in the hospital next to him and I know how strong a bond they formed. After Dutch's passing, Sam said how grateful he was for every minute he got to spend with his son, and being a witness to his love affected me in a surprising way.

I like to think that I'm a very present father who is active in both my kids' lives. I get to drop them off at school every morning, coach their sports teams, spend time with them on the field when they are baseball campers over the Summer, and on and on. I don't have to travel for work, nor do I have to leave the house at 6am to drive downtown. I do miss a lot of evenings during the baseball season when I'm doing lessons in the cage, but I'm still usually home in time to say goodnight. I'm lucky.

But after the year that Sam and Dutch had, and especially since his passing, I've asked myself, "Could I do more as a father?" And the answer was, "Yes."

I immediately signed up to be a volunteer on Sloane's school field trip, something I had never done before. I volunteered at "Science Day" in Maddux's class. And I will continue to look for every opportunity I can to spend more time with them.

But it's not just about the amount of time; I'm also thinking about the quality of the time when I'm around them.

For starters, I'm trying to hide my phone from myself after school - all those emails about baseball camp and lessons can wait until the morning - so that I'm fully present with them when we're together.

I haven't stopped getting on them when they don't listen or are bickering with each other - I'm still their father and there are still rules and expectations and consequences - but I am trying to be more appreciative of every minute I get with them. And not just in a "this is fun" way, but in a "wow, I'm really lucky to have this time with them" way.

Thankfully they aren't sick and hopefully never will be, but even with incredibly healthy kids, there will be a time in the very near future when they won't want to hang out with me. The teenage years are coming fast!

Someday, Maddux won't ask me to shoot hoops with him in the driveway after school. Sloane won't ask for "Snuggle Buggles" before bedtime. They won't want to carve Halloween pumpkins with Mommy and Daddy. And that's fine; that's part of growing up. But I'm definitely now finding a deeper sense of gratitude and joy in these moments.

And then a few years from now, they'll be off to college, and won't ever live under our roof again.

Enjoy every moment.

On the sports front, you know me, I've never yelled at a camper or a kid on one of my teams ever in my life. That's not my personality, but for parents who might be a little quick to get frustrated from the stands watching their kids make a mistake; instead of getting upset, perhaps approach the entire experience from a different perspective; take a step back and remind yourself just how lucky you are to get to watch them play at all, even when they're 0-4.

Sam will never get to watch Dutch play sports.

For the coach who might be quick to scream from the dugout or get overly frustrated by a loss; try reminding yourself how lucky you are to get to be the coach spending time with your son and his friends in the first place, even when your team just made 5 errors in an inning.

Sam will never get to coach Dutch's baseball team.

Sam will never get to drop him off at school. Or be a chaperone on a field trip. Or get asked to play catch in the backyard.

I could go on and on about what we get to do with our sons that Sam won't, but the perspective and sense of gratitude about my own kids that I've felt as a result of Dutch's passing has been profound.

As I struggle to find any silver lining in Sam's loss, what I told him the other day was that from my perspective, Dutch's legacy will be the positive impact his awful experience had on my desire to (hopefully) become a better father.

(Back to present day: when I most recently checked in with Sam a few days ago what he said broke my heart...again. He said, "I guess I'm doing a little better. I just really miss being a Dad." )

Let's not take for granted the incredible gift we have every time we get to do anything with our kids.

Rest in peace, Dutch.