04/13/2026
There will be a last time she ties his cleats.
She won't know it's the last time.
There will be a last time he runs to her first after a big hit.
She won't know it's the last time.
A last time he asks her to stay and watch him take extra swings after practice.
A last time he reaches for her hand walking to the field.
A last time the uniform comes in a size that still looks impossibly small.
She won't know any of them are the last time.
That is the quiet grief of being a baseball mama — the seasons don't announce when they're closing. They just keep moving forward while she's still standing in the moment, assuming there will always be another one just like it.
So she shows up to every game she can.
She cheers a little louder.
She watches a little longer.
She breathes it all in.
Because somewhere in the ordinary Tuesday evening practices and the long tournament weekends and the car rides home talking about nothing in particular — those are the moments.
Every single one of them. ❤️⚾
