Stephen Curry Sees His Son Canon Crying After Defeat — What He Does Moves the Fans
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“The Day We Didn’t Win”
It was a warm Saturday morning when seven-year-old Oliver woke up with a burst of excitement. The annual Little League baseball finals were today, and his team, the Blue Jays, had made it to the championship for the first time. For weeks, he had imagined hitting the winning run and lifting the trophy in front of cheering parents, just like the players he watched on TV.
“Dad!” he shouted from his bed. “Are you ready? Today’s the big game!”
His father, Mark, peeked into the room, smiling groggily. “Morning, champ. I’m ready if you are.”
Oliver nodded enthusiastically. “I dreamt I hit a home run and we won. Everyone clapped for me!”
Mark chuckled. “Sounds like a good dream. Let’s get some breakfast first, MVP.”
At the table, Mark noticed the seriousness in Oliver’s face as he spooned cereal into his mouth.
“Everything okay?” he asked.
Oliver glanced up. “Yeah… I just really want to win today, Dad. I told everyone at school that we would. I practiced every day. I’m going to be the hero.”
Mark leaned forward. “Winning feels great. But being a hero isn’t always about winning, you know.”
Oliver furrowed his brows. “But… don’t heroes always win in the end?”
Mark paused for a second, then said, “Not always. But they always give their best, no matter what happens.”
The boy didn’t answer. He had already imagined the crowd, the high-fives, the trophy.
The field was buzzing with parents, kids, and coaches when they arrived. Blue Jays jerseys dotted the field like moving waves of sky. Oliver ran off to join his teammates while Mark took a seat in the bleachers with the other parents.
The first inning went well. Oliver’s team scored two runs, and he made a sharp catch in the outfield that drew cheers. Mark clapped hard, whistling with pride.
By the third inning, though, things began to change.
The opposing team, the Tigers, had a player named Diego — a tall, strong boy with a swing that sounded like thunder. He hit a triple, then another player followed with a run. The score was tied.
In the fourth inning, Oliver was up to bat with two outs. Mark held his breath. The pitch came, and Oliver swung hard — but missed.
“Strike three!” the umpire called.
Oliver’s face fell. He walked back to the dugout, kicking dust.
Mark watched with a father’s aching heart.
By the sixth and final inning, the Tigers led by one. The Blue Jays had one last chance. Bases were loaded. Two outs. And once again — Oliver was up to bat.
This was the moment. The moment he had imagined all week.
The first pitch came — he didn’t swing. Ball one.
The second pitch — he swung. Crack.
The ball soared into the air.
Oliver’s heart leapt.
But the outfielder caught it.
Game over.
The crowd applauded politely, but the Tigers were already jumping in celebration. The Blue Jays stood frozen, the weight of defeat hitting them all at once.
From the bleachers, Mark saw Oliver turn and scan the crowd. Their eyes met.
Oliver didn’t run to his father like usual. Instead, he sat on the bench, staring down at the grass, his bat still in his hands.
Mark waited a few minutes, then made his way down to the field.
“Hey,” he said softly, kneeling beside his son.
Oliver didn’t answer. His eyes were red.
“I let everyone down,” he muttered.
Mark sat next to him. “No, you didn’t.”
“I was supposed to hit the ball. I practiced. I was supposed to be the hero.”
Mark took a deep breath.
“Do you remember last winter, when you tried ice skating for the first time?” he asked.
Oliver blinked. “Yeah. I fell a lot.”
“But you kept getting up.”
Oliver looked away. “That was different.”
“Why?”
“Because no one was watching. No one expected me to win.”
Mark nodded slowly. “So it’s only worth trying if people are watching?”
Oliver paused, the question settling uncomfortably.
“Let me tell you something,” Mark continued. “When I was your age, I struck out in a game just like this. I cried all night.”
“You did?”
“Yeah. I thought I had ruined everything. But my dad — your grandpa — told me something I never forgot.”
“What did he say?”
“He said, ‘Being brave doesn’t mean you always succeed. It means you show up and try, even when it’s hard.’”
Oliver was silent, absorbing his father’s words.
“You showed up today,” Mark said. “You tried. You swung that bat with everything you had. That makes you a hero to me.”
Oliver finally looked at his father. “But I didn’t win.”
“No,” Mark said gently. “But you learned something more important than winning.”
“What?”
“How to lose.”
The car ride home was quiet at first. Mark turned on the radio softly, letting the background hum of music fill the space.
“Dad,” Oliver said after a while. “Do you ever lose at work?”
Mark smiled. “All the time. Sometimes I mess up a presentation. Sometimes I miss a deadline. It feels terrible. But I always try again.”
“Even when it’s hard?”
“Especially when it’s hard.”
Oliver nodded. “I think… I still want to play baseball. Even if I never win the trophy.”
Mark grinned. “Now that is what makes you a champion.”
A week later, Mark was surprised to find a drawing on the fridge. It was a sketch of a small baseball player, bat in hand, with the words written in crooked seven-year-old handwriting:
“Real heroes don’t always win. They always try.”
Oliver never hit a home run that season. But he played every game with a quiet determination. He encouraged teammates, shook hands with the opposing team, and always got back up.
Years later, as a high school senior, he gave a speech as team captain. He didn’t talk about the trophies they had won that year.
He talked about a Saturday morning when he was seven, and he struck out with the bases loaded.
And how it was the day he learned what being a hero really meant.
