PITTSBURGH — My son and his buddies came home from baseball practice the other day wearing new Pirates t-shirts. Apparently the local Little League organization cleaned out some storage, and divvied up thte equipment.

I loved seeing the boys proudly wearing the black and gold, and I especially liked that my son nabbed some cleats and catcher’s gear (that stuff isn’t cheap). But inside, there was a part of me that held back, that dampened the enthusiasm I wanted to feel.

It was the same reservation I felt on Christmas, when he opened a Paul Skenes jersey from his grandparents. We had seen the phenom pitch in person last summer — Skenes’ first loss, 2-1, due to anemic offense against the Cardinals — and I told my son he was witnessing greatness, and he believed me, and he said Skenes was his favorite player.

But I can’t be too happy for him, or encourage his enthusiasm too much. Because I know that if my son falls in love with the Pirates, or idolizes a player who has all the markings of a fitting role model, the organization will break his heart.

TASTE OF SUCCESS Hockey was my sport growing up, but there was a moment when the Pirates competed for my affections. I was born in 1988, and just barely understood sports as the Penguins became dominant — and as Sid slid. While my Mario Lemieux signed jersey became my prized possession, I also had an Andy Van Slyke poster above my bed.

At least for a while. Like most ‘90s Pittsburgh kids, the Pirates eventually fell off my radar. Going to games was a fun family summer activity, like a picnic at South Park, not an expression of enthusiasm for the team.

That enthusiasm returned, more than I ever expected, in 2013. Johnny Cueto’s dropped ball and Russell Martin’s subsequent home run are among my core sports memories. The energy in the city surpassed that for the Penguins and even, I felt, the Steelers, because it had been bottled up for so long.

Those few years of competitive ball gave me and Pittsburgh a taste of a feeling we thought had been forbidden to us. And it’s made the last few years that much harder to endure, because we know it’s possible to be successful. Which has made it all the clearer that the team’s ownership isn’t aiming for success.

WITNESSING GREATNESS Skenes is the best and worst thing that could have happened to the Pirates, and to this city’s relationship with the franchise.

When I see him pitch, with seemingly effortless power and precision of motion and outcome, the comparison that springs to mind is Roger Federer. “Roger Federer is one of those rare, preternatural athletes who appear to be exempt, at least in part, from certain physical laws,” wrote David Foster Wallace. He is “a type that one could call genius, or mutant, or avatar. He is never hurried or off-balance. … His movements are lithe rather than athletic. Like Ali, Jordan, Maradona, and Gretzky, he seems both less and more substantial than the men he faces.” And so people will buy tickets to see Skenes. They will become invested in him, and in the Pirates, because he is exceptional.

But that means people will — and should, and must — expect the team to embrace his greatness, and to attempt to be great itself. That means my son, innocently, will expect that. Because like all children he will be drawn to excellence and assume everyone else is as well.

And then he will learn painfully that some people value excellence only for its instrumental value — for what they can extract from others’ excellence — and not for itself. And he, just a boy, will not only be disappointed; he will have had his enthusiasm exploited to sell tickets and merchandise; he will have been used.

ONE-WAY STREET There’s no reason to believe Skenes will remain in Pittsburgh once his rookie salary rate expires. And there’s no reason to believe the ownership is invested in making the team competitive in the meantime. This winter proved that.

Encouraging my son to become invested in such a franchise, knowing full well what it will do to him, is wrong. But I also can’t deprive him of witnessing, and admiring, the greatness that franchise is hoarding, and stifling.

I’m stuck. They have me. It shouldn’t be this way. I should be able to enjoy my son’s growing enthusiasm, knowing that the team’s owners will take the risk of spending money to succeed, just as we will take the risk of spending money to witness, and to participate in, its striving for success. We should be able to be all-in, father and son, city and franchise, together.

Instead, because the team is holding back, I must hold back. He’ll keep learning the game, and we’ll go to a few games. I’ll encourage him to watch Paul Skenes, to consider the patience, the precision, the dedication it takes to be excellent — in baseball, in life.

But I won’t — I can’t — encourage him to become invested in a team that will never be invested in him.