The last day of summer, we held a little ceremony.
No speeches. Just kids standing on the basepaths, each holding a ball with a name on it. Some names belonged to boys now grown. Some to ones lost to time.
We played one final game. I didn’t coach it. I just watched.
Watched as they laughed. Fell. Got up. Cheered for each other like brothers. No scoreboard. No parents yelling from the sidelines. Just the rhythm of the game, like it used to be.
Afterward, they gathered around me. Grant stood in the back, arms crossed, proud as hell.
One by one, the kids placed their signed balls in a box at my feet.
I asked, “What’s all this for?”
A girl with freckles and a swing like fire said, “So you’ll always know — you were never alone either.”
I couldn’t speak. Just nodded. My throat too tight to let anything out but tears.
Epilogue
That ball — the first one Grant sent — sits on my mantle now, next to a photo of the 2023 summer team. I still limp. Still ache on rainy mornings. But I ache with purpose.
Some days, I visit the field just to listen. Not to teach. Just to hear the sounds again — the crack of bat, the laugh of a kid who didn’t think he could catch one.
We were the last ones on the field once. Now, we’re the reason it’s not empty.
And that’s enough for me.
