This is what parents do.
You can do this, kid, a father will tell his son , the kid's glove bigger than his two hands combined. All it takes is practice and focus.
Famous last words~undulating salve to all hurts. Practice and you'll be perfect, a champ even, just remember what I taught you. Just practice and stay focused.
I knew nothing of baseball when my baby joined that first team, the uniform a bit too big, the cap even bigger. His father came out of his dark laboratories and became the coach, in a bright park on a hot afternoon. Ah, I thought, this looks like fun. On that first day, I worried about my husband getting sunburned, forgetting to drink enough water, forgetting to pace himself, too unaccustomed to the outdoors at his age. I didn't worry about the kid. He was outdoorsy, full of energy, bruising for a challenge in each sport he took up.
At the end of that practice, and after each practice and game after that, all muddy and sweaty and exhausted, the extra equipment safely stashed in the back seat until the next time, we drove to McDonald's for burgers and fries. The American memory came wrapped up this way on these afternoons.
My husband no longer coaches baseball. Yet, every spring, he still drives or walks to the field, and talks to parents and coaches and kids. He and his son played ball together; and that, he will remember every single spring.