Growing up with my brothers, football wasn’t just a sport, it was our religion. We played everywhere: friends’ lawns (sorry, Mr. Martin!), 170th Street (sorry, passing cars!), asphalt parking lots, recess, back alleys… possibly a grocery store aisle once.

If we could carve out 20 square feet and find anything even remotely spherical: sock, apple, shoe, rolled-up hoodie, we declared it a football and immediately began a game.

I loved it so much, for 15 years I coached flag football for kids ages 5 to 15. At that point you’re not just coaching football… you’re coaching personalities, emotions, growth spurts, egos, and at least one kid with ADD who would sprint everywhere except the direction I actually needed him to go.

But then we moved to Florida… and my younger boys traded my beloved football for baseball.
Baseball.
The sport where everyone stands still until, suddenly, they’re running for their lives.
I didn’t take it personally… at least not too much.

Anyway, a few nights ago I took them to the fields to hit some balls. We were having a blast, smacking line drives, shagging fly balls, and I was doing my best trying not to pull a hamstring in front of my own children.

Then, we did the most Taylor thing possible and went straight to the pickleball courts for dessert.

We got home, popped the trunk, and that’s when one of my sons said the words no parent wants to hear:

“Where’s my glove?”

Not his old glove.
Not his backup glove.
His brand-new “this cost more than my first car” glove.

You could feel the emotional temperature of the garage drop 20 degrees.
Time stopped.
Somewhere, dramatic violin music started playing.

We searched everywhere: car, garage, under seats, inside bags… repeatedly. I’m pretty sure we checked the same bag five times. That’s when you know desperation has set in, when you start half-believing the glove might quietly sneak back in while you’re not looking.

After a 5-second emergency team meeting, we concluded the glove must’ve fallen out at the baseball fields. So we raced back like we were in a full-blown Jason Bourne chase scene with national security on the line, because nothing gets dads moving faster than the sudden awareness that something expensive has gone missing.

When we pulled up, the fields were pitch black, so I parked the car like a crime-scene investigator and blasted the high beams across the grass. And, of course, the sprinklers were on. Not a gentle mist. No, these things were erupting like a busted city fire hydrant on the Fourth of July, spraying water everywhere.

But none of us cared. We had one mission: Find. The. Glove.

I skidded the car to a stop, and the boys launched out of the backseat like someone fired a starter pistol. They sprinted across the field like they were chasing Olympic gold, blasting through those sprinklers like Navy SEALs storming a beachhead.

And then, by divine intervention and sheer mercy on my wallet, there it was:
The golden glove, sitting on the pitcher’s mound, like it had survived a natural disaster.
A little soggy. A little waterlogged. But still intact, still recognizable, and most importantly… still ours.

I’m telling you… in the long history of my boys’ baseball moments, this one ranks higher than it probably should. But avoiding a unnecessary few hundred dollar expense? Yeah… that’ll put any dad in a championship mood real fast.

My son dodged a bullet.
An expensive one.
And I gained two gray hairs.

And here’s the chiropractic point of the story (you knew it was coming):

A quick rescue is possible… but prevention is way better.

Some might say, “We got lucky.”
I call it God stepping in to rescue us from our own carelessness.

That glove could’ve been gone forever, adopted by another family, or flipped on Facebook Marketplace by someone claiming it was “lightly used.”

But with your health?
Luck is a terrible strategy.
(Trust me. I’ve seen people try it for 32 years.)

Here’s what people let “fall out of the bag” every day:

• Tightness they call “just age”
  • A twinge blamed on “sleeping funny” (even though they’ve slept the same way since 1989)
  • Numbness they hope fixes itself
  • A stiff back they think stretching will magically solve
  • Pain that’s “not that bad yet,” which is code for “I’m ignoring this until it ruins my week”

Meanwhile, the sprinklers are already turning on.

And unlike a glove, you can’t just race back and pick up a new spine.

That glove didn’t vanish all at once.
It slipped out quietly…
unnoticed…
until it turned into a full-blown emergency.

Your health works the exact same way.

So here’s your friendly nudge…

If something feels off, don’t wait for the sprinklers.
Don’t hope it fixes itself.

Don’t wait for the dramatic movie music.

Prevention is always the better path.
An ounce of prevention beats a pound of cure, every single time.

Enjoy the rest of your weekend!

Dr. Derek “Check the Bag First” Taylor