Chris McCormick

“He also shared his own struggles in the meetings. He calls them “rocks in the shoe,” the small or large things that bother you and affect how you move through the day. If you ignore them, you feel them every step, but if you address them, you can move more freely.”

This is what it’s all about! Great work @kenbabby I still remember my time at Enterprise Village as a 5th grader, I worked at BIC selling pens. Who else had an opportunity to go to one of these as a kid? I would’ve loved working the Rays store! mlb.com/video/kids-exp…

Given the current trend of declining reading and writing skills, this environment provides a unique opportunity for candidates to stand out, essentially to zig while everyone else zags. thedaily.coach/p/the-competit…

Congratulations to our 11U National team, champions of the @flusssabaseball Snowball Fight 2K26!

Urban Meyer makes mentor move with The Urban Edge yourobserver.com/news/2026/jan/…

E+R=O, Event + Response = Outcome Your response today will matter to you, to the people around you, and maybe most of all, to the ones watching how you choose to respond.

Baseball starts back up today. That means practices, games, hotels, late dinners, and early mornings. The schedule fills up fast, and the whole family feels it. But seasons don’t last forever, and neither do these moments. The lesson is simple: stay present in the busy, because one day the calendar will be wide open and you’ll miss the noise.

It’s report card time. One of the most difficult parts of teaching is assigning a grade that reflects what was earned, even when it doesn’t fully capture a student’s effort, growth, or attitude. Teaching often means planting seeds without knowing when or how they’ll grow. Some lessons take time. These are the students I think about most and hope this moment becomes part of something bigger, even if I never get to see it.

It was class picture day this week, and I found myself in a meeting before it started. I overheard the usual chatter about outfits: “I don’t like what I’m wearing,” “I wore black to slim.” Then I heard my name, followed by a pause. Someone read the room and said, “that doesn’t involve Chris.” Then jokingly, “Is that why you are wearing black, Chris?” I appreciated the acknowledgment, but it was another small reminder of what it’s like being the only male instructional staff member in an elementary school outside of PE and plant ops. I didn’t set out to teach elementary. I always thought I’d be a high school teacher. But over time, I’ve realized how important it is for students to see a positive male figure in their lives. Families look different. Some students don’t have that presence consistently. Being a man who values reading, writing, empathy, and learning matters. Some days the isolation is real, but I hope it’s outweighed by what I’m able to give these kids.

This morning our pastor shared a story of a woman whose tree was damaged in the Civil War. She stared at it in anger for years until someone told her to cut it down. Forgiveness is like that. Let go. Move forward.

What an Ohio State Loss Taught My Son The Ohio State loss to Miami on New Year’s Eve stung. There’s no way around that. Anyone who loves a team knows that certain losses sit with you longer than others, not because of the score, but because of what you carried into the game emotionally. After the game, I found myself talking with my son, not just about football, but about what it actually means to care deeply about something you can’t control. Living in Florida, I’ve met a surprising number of Ohio State fans who are much younger than me and have never lived anywhere near Ohio. Almost every time I ask how they became Buckeyes fans, the answer is the same: “My dad went to Ohio State,” or “My dad is an Ohio State fan.” That always gives me hope. It reminds me that being an Ohio State fan isn’t just about wins, championships, or even Saturdays in the fall. It’s about family history. It’s about tradition. It’s about something being passed down, not forced, but shared. It’s a connection between a father and son that goes beyond the scoreboard. So when we talked about the Miami loss, I couldn’t help but think back to my own childhood. Some of the biggest Ohio State losses are etched into my memory just as clearly as the biggest wins. The disappointment, the frustration, the silence after the game ends. Those moments mattered. They shaped what it meant to truly be invested. I tried to explain that to him. Being a sports fan means riding waves. High highs and low lows. It means learning how to sit with disappointment and still come back the next season with hope. The losses aren’t a flaw in the experience, they are the experience. Without them, the wins don’t feel the same. I reminded him how incredible last year felt. How those moments only feel that big because of the years when things didn’t go our way. Because of games like this one. More than anything, I wanted him to understand that being passionate means feeling both the highs and the lows. The frustration hurts, but it’s what makes the joy, the connection, and the memories so meaningful. That’s the lesson I hope sticks. Not just how to handle a loss, but how to stay committed to something through the ups and downs. How to understand that disappointment doesn’t mean regret. And how sharing that passion with someone you love can turn even a tough loss into a meaningful moment. If one day he tells someone, “My dad is an Ohio State fan,” and smiles while saying it, then I’ll know the lesson landed.

The hardest part of E+R=O that no one talks about is owning your response when the outcome isn’t what you wanted. I didn’t pass a test on my first attempt and it was frustrating. I told my son because I don’t want him thinking setbacks only happen to him. What matters is not letting one result stop the outcome you’re working toward. #ERO

One of my favorite reminders of perspective comes from watching It’s a Wonderful Life. This year has been stressful in many ways with baseball, finances, health issues, and surgeries, and it’s easy to get caught focusing on what feels heavy. The movie reminds me to slow down and notice the amazing things right in front of my face, especially time with my son and the steady presence of Katie. Like George Bailey, I’m reminded that meaning is found in showing up and appreciating the people placed in our lives.

Lately I’ve stopped defaulting to “you’re the best” and “you did great” with my son. Not because I doubt him, but because he knows when he’s not at his best. I want honesty to matter. The other day he asked if I thought his team would win. I said no and told him why. He didn’t love it. Turns out he used it. Sometimes being a Coach Dad feels risky. Sometimes it motivates. I’m still learning the difference.

A Moment This Week That Reminded Me Why I Teach This week gave me one of those moments that stops you in your tracks and reminds you exactly why you chose this profession. It was Friday, the day of our Winter Break party. As I was taking attendance, I noticed one student was absent. That immediately felt strange. This was not the kind of day kids usually miss. I made a mental note of it and kept moving. Moments later, I was celebrating a small but very real teacher victory. A permission slip for the movie had finally been returned. It was the student’s third copy, but who’s counting. I was right in the middle of that moment when I heard a knock at the door. I gave permission for a student to open it. And suddenly I heard it. “It’s Santa!” Before I could even process what was happening, there stood my missing student, dressed head to toe in a full Santa outfit. Hat. Coat. Boots. Belly. He even had a sack slung over his shoulder. Inside the sack was his backpack and, as a surprise for the class, a full box of candy canes. The room exploded. Laughter. Shock. Joy. Kids completely losing it in the best possible way. I quietly set my morning work answer key down on my desk and just let it ride. No redirection. No schedule. No urgency to get back on track. Because sometimes the lesson isn’t on the board. It’s in the moment. It’s in the shared laughter. It’s in the creativity, confidence, and courage it takes for a kid to show up like that. It’s in watching a classroom turn into a community for a few unforgettable minutes. That moment reminded me why I teach. Not for the data. Not for the pacing guides. Not even for the curriculum. But for the unexpected joy that walks through the door when you least expect it, dressed as Santa, carrying candy canes, and reminding you that magic still exists in a fifth-grade classroom.

E + R = O and the Choices We’re Still Learning to Make One of the frameworks I try to teach my son is E + R = O. Event plus Response equals Outcome. It’s simple. It’s clean. And in theory, it makes a lot of sense. We can’t always control what happens to us, but we can control how we respond. Our response shapes the outcome. I talk with my son about this when he’s facing hard choices. How to respond to disappointment. How to handle frustration. How to act when things don’t go his way, especially in baseball. But here’s the part I don’t always say out loud. I don’t always get it right myself. Youth baseball has a way of pulling me in deeper than I expect. The schedules, the expectations, the emotions, the “what ifs.” Sometimes I care so much that I lose perspective. I react instead of respond. I let a single game, a single inning, or a single decision affect my mood, my patience, and the way I show up. In those moments, I’m not modeling E + R = O very well at all. The event might be small, but my response can be outsized. And the outcome? That’s usually not what I want for myself or for my son. That’s where Katie comes in. Being with Katie and co-parenting together is like having a rock in the house. She’s steady when I’m spinning. She helps me slow down, zoom out, and remember what actually matters. She doesn’t dismiss my feelings, but she helps me balance them. She reminds me that this season of baseball is just that...a season. Her guidance doesn’t just help our son. It helps me. She models calm. She models perspective. She models gratitude and grace. And in doing so, she quietly teaches E + R = O better than any conversation ever could. I need to remember to be grateful for that. For her. For the way she anchors our family when emotions run high and expectations feel heavy. I want my son to make good choices. I want him to learn how to respond well to life’s challenges. But I’m learning too. Sometimes the most important lesson isn’t getting E + R = O right every time. It’s recognizing when you didn’t, and being humble enough to reset, apologize, and try again. And being thankful for the people in your life who help you do exactly that.