What Baseball Taught Me About Breaking Barriers

 The first time I walked onto that Little League field, I felt every set of eyes land on me.

That kind of attention makes your shoulders tighten. My heart was pounding, but I kept moving.

Growing up in Chestnut Mound, I only wanted to play baseball. I was not trying to make a statement. I was not trying to be a headline. I wanted to play the game I loved.

Even as a kid, I knew it mattered.

In Smith County, I was the first girl to play Little League Baseball with the boys.

No one handed me a plan for how to do that. I learned it through small moments of courage that most people never notice.

The courage people do not see

Breaking a barrier does not feel like one big movie moment. Most of the time, it feels quiet.

Courage looked like showing up when I knew someone might laugh.

It looked like pulling on my uniform and walking into the dugout while my stomach felt tight.

It looked like acting like I belonged before I fully believed it.

Later on, a girls’ softball league was created. I stayed with softball too and played first base. Being taller than most kids made me stand out, but it also gave me an edge. Over time, I stopped feeling awkward about it and started using it.

My first game still stands out in my mind.

A pitch got away and hit me in the head. For a split second, everything went quiet. I could have cried. I could have walked off. I could have decided it was not worth it.

Instead, I stayed.

Fear did not disappear, but I refused to quit. Something in me wanted to finish what I started.

That is what grit looked like for me.

Grit is built in real time

Baseball teaches you to mess up in front of people. It also teaches you that the next pitch always comes.

A swing and a miss does not end your day.

An error does not erase your effort.

Embarrassment does not get the final word.

Practice teaches your brain a simple idea. You reset and try again.

Being the first at something adds pressure. People pay attention to your wins and your mistakes. That can mess with your head if you let it.

So I learned to focus on what I could control.

Effort was in my control.

Preparation was in my control.

My response was in my control.

That lesson stuck with me far beyond the field.

How it carried into my career

Years later, I walked into professional rooms that felt like that dugout.

Sometimes you are the only person with your background. Sometimes you are the only one who came from a small town. Sometimes you can feel people quietly sizing you up.

In those moments, the old lesson kicks in. You do not wait to “feel ready.” You prepare, you show up, and you do the work.

In my career, grit has been simple and practical.

Speaking up when it would be easier to stay quiet has been part of it.

Asking the hard question has been part of it.

Being clear and direct has been part of it.

Preparation has been part of it too, because preparation is how I calm my nerves and trust myself.

Life still hits you sometimes.

Rejection happens.

Setbacks happen.

Doubt shows up.

When that happens, I go back to what the field taught me. Reset and stay in the game.

The biggest barrier is often inside you

Looking back, the hardest part was not the boys.

The hardest part was the voice in my head that said, “Maybe you should not.”

Small acts of courage are how you answer that voice.

Those small choices build a stronger version of you. They teach you that fear can sit in the passenger seat, but it cannot drive.

You do not need to be the first girl in a league to understand this. Anyone who has wanted more for their life has felt that edge.

If you are standing at your own edge

If something scares you, start small.

Take the next step you can actually take.

Make the call.

Send the email.

Apply.

Show up.

Keep going.

That is how grit is built. That is how barriers move. That is how you stay in the game.

The Unsung Heroes of the Maneuvers: Civilian Support and Cooperation

 When people talk about the Tennessee Maneuvers of World War II, they focus on tanks, soldiers, and strategy. They picture dusty roads and military drills. But there’s a part of the story that rarely gets told—the role of local civilians. I believe they were just as important as the generals in the field.

Let’s start with the basics. These maneuvers took place across 21 counties in Middle Tennessee. Thousands of soldiers arrived, almost overnight. They needed open land to train on. Fields, pastures, and wooded areas became battlefields—not of war, but of preparation. And most of that land was privately owned.

Now, you might think landowners were forced into it. But that wasn’t the case. Most said yes. Willingly. Some even proudly. That says a lot about the people of this region.

They didn’t just hand over land. They welcomed soldiers with open arms. Some families cooked meals. Others offered barns for shelter. Kids followed the troops around, wide-eyed and full of questions. Soldiers often gave them gum or candy. It was a friendship that grew fast.

I’ve heard stories of a soldier helping fix a farmer’s fence after a training mishap. Another one helped deliver a calf in the middle of the night. These moments went beyond a handshake or a signature on a property release. They became memories passed down through generations.

My own grandmother used to talk about the sound of boots on gravel and the sight of jeeps rolling by. She never complained. She understood the purpose. She once said, “They were young boys far from home. I figured the least we could do was feed them.”

That kind of attitude was everywhere. It’s why the maneuvers worked. The Army had to train thousands of men quickly and realistically. But they couldn’t have done it without the cooperation of the people living here. Not just cooperation—true support.

I started the Smith County Historical and Tactical Society (SCHTS) because I wanted to honor that spirit. I wanted to collect those stories. The ones about kindness and hospitality. The ones you don’t find in official reports.

It started small. Just a few interviews, some old photos, and a couple of borrowed uniforms on display at the county fair. But people responded. They brought in letters, maps, and more stories. They remembered.

Today, SCHTS hosts annual events, educational days, and small reenactments. We focus on what happened off the battlefield. What happened between the people in uniforms and the people in overalls.

Sometimes people ask if there was tension. Surely someone got upset about a fence being knocked down or a crop being trampled. Of course, those things happened. But the bigger story is how neighbors, farmers, and small-town folks took it in stride. They knew the stakes.

This wasn’t just practice. It was preparation for something much bigger. Many had sons or brothers already overseas. Letting the Army use the pasture was the least they could do to help.

And the soldiers didn’t forget. After the war, some came back to visit. They sent letters. A few even married local girls. There’s one story I love—about a young soldier who met a farmer’s daughter while stationed here. They danced once at a barn party. Years later, he returned, and they picked up right where they left off. They were married for 50 years.

That’s the kind of story you won’t find in textbooks. But it’s real. It’s part of our history. And it deserves to be remembered.

Too often, we focus on the dramatic parts of history—the loud and the violent. But quiet cooperation matters too. It builds trust. It builds communities. And during the maneuvers, it helped build a stronger military.

I believe the local civilians were unsung heroes. They didn’t wear medals, but they made training possible. Their patience, generosity, and grit made a difference.

It’s easy to overlook them. There’s no Hollywood movie about the woman who let 200 soldiers march through her garden. But that woman mattered. Her story matters.

So if you ever find yourself driving through Middle Tennessee and see an open field, think of it as more than just land. It might have once been part of a tank route or a makeshift command post. But more importantly, it was a place where a local family said, “Yes. You can use it.”

That simple yes helped prepare America for war. That quiet cooperation helped shape the outcome.

At SCHTS, we’ll keep telling those stories. Because history isn’t just about what happened. It’s about who made it happen. And in this case, many of them weren’t soldiers. They were farmers, shopkeepers, and schoolchildren.

They were neighbors. And they were heroes, too.

Behind the Story: Why I Loved Writing About Lance Key and His Bowling Legacy By Tressa Bush

 Every once in a while, I get the chance to write a story that truly makes me smile from start to finish. That’s exactly how I felt writing the Courier Feature on Lance Key—Smith County’s own bowling champ with 21 perfect games under his belt.

Yes, 21 perfect games.

It’s rare to find someone who not only loves what they do but also takes that passion and turns it into something that lifts up everyone around them. Lance didn’t just master the game of bowling—he turned it into a lifestyle of teaching, encouraging, and staying grounded in family values.

What made this story special wasn’t just the incredible stats or trophies. It was the heart behind it all.

Lance’s love for the game started early, just like many great athletes. But it was the simple things—bowling with his grandma on 19-cent game days, learning how to drill bowling balls, and coaching high school students—that made the article so rich and enjoyable to write.

There’s something joyful about telling a story where practice, patience, and small-town support all come together. Lance’s story is exactly that. He never forgot where he came from. He found love in a bowling alley. He became a teacher and mentor. And he still made time to rack up perfect scores like it’s just another day on the lanes.

When I sat down to write it, I realized this wasn’t just a sports story. It was about family. About Smith County roots. About doing what you love—even if it’s not flashy. Lance’s story reminds us that success doesn’t have to shout. It can be built on consistency, kindness, and a whole lot of pin action.

So, why do I recommend reading it?

Because it’ll make you feel good.

Because it highlights someone who took something simple and made it meaningful.

And because, at the end of the day, it’s just plain fun to read about a guy who can bowl 300 on a regular Tuesday night.

Whether you’re a fan of bowling or not, I think you’ll walk away from this article with a smile—and maybe a new appreciation for the folks quietly doing amazing things right here in Smith County.

Give it a read. I think you’ll love it as much as I loved writing it.

Crafting Compelling Narratives from Real People

Everyone loves a good story. But not every good story comes from a famous person or a dramatic event. Some of the best stories come from everyday people. People with quiet strength. People with lived experience.

I believe the most compelling narratives are the ones we almost overlook. The kind told on front porches, over coffee, or in passing conversations. That’s where the real gold is.

As a storyteller, I don’t chase headlines. I chase heart. I listen for the pauses, the laughs, the unsaid things. That’s where the story lives.

You don’t need fancy equipment to tell a good story. You need ears. And patience. And curiosity.

Let me share some tips I’ve learned from interviewing real people over the years. They’re simple. But powerful.

1. Ditch the Script

A list of questions is helpful. But don’t let it cage the conversation. Let the person guide you. Follow their energy. If they light up when they talk about their garden, stay there. That joy matters.

The best interviews feel like conversations, not interrogations.

2. Ask Small Questions

Big questions get rehearsed answers. Small questions spark real memories.

Instead of “What was that like?”

Try, “What did the room smell like that day?”

Or, “What song reminds you of that moment?”

Details matter. They bring stories to life.

3. Don’t Interrupt the Silence

People think silence is awkward. I think it’s magic.

When someone pauses, don’t rush to fill the gap. Let it breathe.

Often, what comes next is what they really needed to say.

Silence means trust is building. Let it.

4. Empathy Over Expertise

You don’t need to know everything. You just need to care.

Real people aren’t looking to impress you. They want to be understood.

So listen like a friend, not a reporter.

Nod. React. Let them see you’re human, too.

5. Find the Thread

Every story has a thread. A theme. A heartbeat.

Your job is to find it.

Maybe it’s resilience. Maybe it’s reinvention. Maybe it’s simply “family.”

Once you find the thread, the story writes itself.

6. Don’t Chase Trauma

Here’s my contrarian take:

You don’t need tragedy to make a story compelling.

Joy is powerful, too. So is quiet dignity. So is contentment.

The media loves trauma. I love transformation.

7. Let the Story Breathe

Don’t try to wrap everything up in a bow.

Real life isn’t always tidy. And that’s okay.

Sometimes, the ending is still unfolding.

Let readers feel the openness. It’s more honest.

8. Write Like You Talk

Don’t write to impress. Write to connect.

Keep your sentences short.

Use simple language.

Honor the person’s voice.

People don’t remember fancy words. They remember how you made them feel.

9. Celebrate the Ordinary

This might be my biggest belief:

Ordinary isn’t boring. It’s beautiful.

A grandmother’s Sunday meal. A mail carrier’s morning route. A teen’s first job.

These are the threads of real life.

And real life is always worth telling.

10. Follow Up

After the interview, follow up.

Say thank you. Share how their story impacted you.

Let them see the result. Let them feel proud.

Storytelling isn’t one-sided. It’s a relationship.

Final Thought

You don’t have to be famous to matter.

You don’t have to be loud to be heard.

When we take time to listen—really listen—we discover stories that change us.

So go find someone. Sit down. Ask how their day is.

Then let the conversation take you somewhere unexpected.

The story’s already there.

You just have to care enough to hear it.

Do you want to see more of Tressa? Follow her on Twitter, LinkedIn, Instagram and visit her website.