The Joy That Doesn’t Wait for the Scoreboard

I thought joy came after the win. I’m not so sure anymore.

Opening Day always does something to me.

There’s a crack of the bat, the smell of the grass, the feeling that maybe—just maybe—this is the year everything comes together.

And when it does? When the ball clears the fence?

That’s my kind of joy.

Touchdown joy.

Home run joy.

The kind that shows up when the result goes your way.

I’ve lived a lot of my life there.

And then there’s Julio Rodriguez.

He plays the game like joy isn’t waiting for anything.

It’s there before the swing, between innings, in the dugout. Even in a slump, there’s this sense that he actually loves being in the game.

And I watch that and think:

What is that?

Because it’s not touchdown joy.

And then there’s Eugenio Suarez.

He calls it “good vibes only”.

And you see it right away—the smile, the laugh, the way joy seems to spill out of him whether he just struck out or just hit one into the stands.

It’s not tied to the outcome.

It’s like he carries it with him.

And maybe part of that comes from where he’s from.

Venezuela has been through a lot. Instability. Scarcity. Families stretched thin. For many players, getting to the majors isn’t just a career—it’s survival.

And I wonder if that shapes a different kind of joy.

Not a joy that waits for everything to be right…

but a joy that learns how to live even when things aren’t.

Because I’ve seen that kind of joy before.

Years ago, I went to Haiti.

I remember the images—stomachs distended, kids with no clear future, poverty that didn’t feel temporary. I went thinking I had something to give.

And then we worshipped.

And I wasn’t ready for what I saw.

Pure, unbounded joy.

Singing. Clapping. Bodies moving.

Not because life was easy—nothing about it was—but because something deeper was alive in them.

They weren’t waiting for the conditions to change.

They were already there.

And somewhere in that moment, it hit me:

I didn’t come as the one with something to give.

I came as the one in need.

I’ve felt that same kind of joy in other places too—concerts centered on justice, spaces where the stories are heavy and unfinished.

You expect sorrow.

But what rises… is joy.

Not light, easy joy.

But something deeper.

A shared, defiant joy that says:

We’re still here.

And I’m realizing—this isn’t joy after the victory.

This is joy in the middle of the struggle.

A joy that refuses to wait.

A joy that doesn’t need the scoreboard to change before it shows up.

Because if I’m honest, my instinct is still to wait.

Wait until things work.

Wait until the outcome is clear.

Wait until the ending feels like a win.

But I’m starting to wonder if there’s another way.

A joy that shows up in the swing, not just the home run.

A joy that lives in the being, not just the result.

Maybe that’s what I see in Julio.

Maybe that’s what I see in Eugenio.

Good vibes only… even here.

Not just hands-in-the-air joy.

But feet-in-the-mud joy.

Maybe resurrection doesn’t begin when everything changes.

Maybe it begins right here—

in the kind of joy that refuses to wait.