You never know how quickly it will end until you’re sitting in the stands at the final baseball game of your son’s junior year. District playoffs. A coral and pink tinged sunset coloring the sky. Dust rising from a raked infield. Palpable energy filling the air.
Then a deep breath. The ball leaves the pitcher’s hand. A swing. The third out. And then it’s over.
The seniors step off the turf for the last time. Eyes are weepy.
And suddenly it hits you: Next year, that will be him.
All those little league baseball games that once stretched before us into what seemed yawning endlessness.
All those summers of backyard catch and oiled gloves and trips to the batting cage.
All those despairing losses and those soaring wins.
The jubilant joy of it all.
It all ends here with one thwack of the ball hitting the catcher’s glove and one final out.
Eighteen spring seasons seemed like enough when we were in the thick of it. When he was 10 and slugging it out beneath a bright sun. When I was schlepping chairs and coolers and copious amounts of sunscreen to the ballpark. It seemed like enough then.
But now those seasons are stacked behind me, and only one remains.
He walks toward me, that boyish frame gone, replaced by the young man he’s becoming. His eyes pool with tears, and I find mine are filling too. And we don’t have to say it. We both know. Next year, he will be the one stepping off that diamond for the last time. And I don’t think I’ll ever be ready for that final walk off the turf where so much life has unfolded.
Originally published on the author’s Facebook page
by Brooke Teel 
by Emily Becker 
