It’s strange how something can feel like it’s always been part of your life—until suddenly, it’s not.
This is our last year of Little League. The last time my son will pull that LL jersey over his head, adjusting his cap with the quiet confidence of someone who’s done this a hundred times before. The last time we’ll pack the car with bats, gloves, sunflower seeds, and high hopes. The last season of dusty cleats, dugout chatter, and cheering from the bleachers with familiar faces.
And I didn’t realize how much it would ache until now.
Little League started as something small—a Saturday sign-up sheet, a pair of cleats bought slightly too big, a glove softened with oil and patience. But it grew quickly. Into something routine. Something grounding. Something precious.
It became weeknight practices under golden-hour skies. Post-game pizza. Team chats on the sidelines that somehow turned into lifelong friendships—for the kids and the parents. It was the comfort of seeing the same families each season, swapping folding chairs, sharing sunscreen, celebrating hits and learning from strikes. It was community in the truest, purest sense.
I watched my son grow here. Not just taller or stronger, but more himself. I saw his confidence build with every at-bat, his resilience tested with every error, his spirit lifted by teammates who high-fived him whether he struck out or sent the ball soaring. I saw leadership spark in quiet moments. I saw kindness in the way he cheered for others.
There’s a rhythm to these years that seeps into your bones—the clink of metal bats, the smell of fresh-cut grass, the echo of coaches calling out encouragement, the way the crowd holds its breath on a full count. These are the sounds of a childhood well-lived.
I want to hold this moment. To say thank you.
Thank you to the coaches who showed up early, stayed late, and taught more than baseball. Thank you to the parents who cheered for every kid like they were their own. Thank you to the kids who played with heart, with grit, with joy. Thank you to this league, this field, this chapter of our lives.
We’ll move on, of course. New seasons, new sports, new milestones. But a part of our hearts will always live under the lights of our little field, where the game was never just a game. It was childhood, community, and magic stitched together in red seams.
So here’s to the last season—and to every season that came before it. We’ll carry them with us, always.
