Bottom of the seventh inning, no outs. The 3-4-5 hitters were due up. The score was 9-8.
The first batter stepped up to the plate, clinking her bat against her cleats twice. The first pitch was a ball, the second a strike and the third one was hit way up in the air, right behind the standard shortstop position. The hit required minimal movement on my part — one out.
The second batter swung her bat around three times before getting into position. Once again, the first pitch was a ball, then two strikes and another ball. On the fifth pitch of the at-bat, she shot a ground ball up the middle. I ran over, quickly falling to my knees to block the bounce. As if it was second nature, I slung the ball to first base from the ground — two outs.
The third batter looked much more nervous than the previous two, mostly because she knew that she could be her team’s last hope. She did not have a ritual, she just planted her feet in the batter's box. This time, the first pitch was a strike, and the second was a routine ground ball right to me. I took my time, aiming for a perfect throw but also attempting to savor the moment — three outs.
Three outs and we were suddenly the Philadelphia Public League’s champions. I tore off my glove and mask, sprinting to the mound and we jumped up and down for what felt like many, many minutes.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my father, proudly wearing his assistant coach uniform, celebrating with my coach. Just behind him was my mother, hugging fellow parents while shaking the fence in excitement.
Through the shrieks of joy and plenty of teary-eyed embraces, I felt my co-captain, Sara, put her hand on my shoulder. She too was crying and a huge smile spread across her face.
As she pulled me in for a hug, she whispered in my ear, “She was watching over you at that moment. She is so proud.”
Up until this point, I hadn’t yet cried — but the emotion I felt in that moment was overwhelming.
The ‘she’ that Sara was referring to was my grandmother. She had passed away only 10 days before, and truthfully, I had just been trying to get by. My grandmother was my best friend, my third parent. Losing her felt like I had lost an extension of myself.
She had always loved to watch me play softball, or “ball” as she liked to call it. She came to every game she could, yelling even louder than my mother which was a hard feat. She would call me, asking about my tournaments, or try to give me pointers about my stance. When I was very little, we would have catches around her house, and she would show me how to throw properly.
When she was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, I wondered if those memories would fade away for her — if she would remember all the years of softball, but more so if she would remember me. But in the moments that she still recognized me, I began to understand that memory isn’t always as fragile as it seems.
When she died, it felt like time should have stopped. Instead, it kept moving — straight into our first playoff game the very next day. My coach gave me the option not to play, saying that she had no judgment if that was what I chose. But I refused. I might not have known what came next, but I knew that no matter what, I needed to take the field. I knew it was what my grandmother would have wanted, and I knew that softball might be the only way I could cope.
We won 14-0, and after the game, I revealed what had happened to my team. The girls circled around me, each expressing their condolences and kind words. As their captain, I pretended to be alright, but as their friend, I needed them more than they knew — and they showed me they did know, pulling me in and refusing to let me carry it alone.
Harley came to school the next day with a batch of cookies, while Gabby wrote me a beautiful card. At the practice before our next playoff game, the whole team banded together to give me a gift — a purple bow. Purple, representing the color for Alzheimer’s awareness.
I held the bow in my hand, caressing its edges. Just as I felt a tear begin to fall down my cheek, I looked up and saw each of them with a purple bow in their hands as well.
Sara stepped up to me, saying, “This is a part of our uniform now, for your grandmother.”
And they certainly were.
So, when we won the championship, as I jumped up and down, l looked around to see the purple bows dancing in the air as well. For the first time in a while, I felt like, maybe, just maybe, I was going to be okay. I would be okay because of the sisterhood I surrounded myself with.
Throughout my entire life, I have been reminded time and time again that women's sports are more than just the game — it is a family that is built. It is a family that supports you during your highest of highs and picks you up during your lowest of lows. It is a family that you build memories with.
And when I look back on those memories, I think about how grateful I am to have them — to still remember them. The day we won the championship was one of the happiest days of my life, sprinkled in the midst of one of my darkest times. However, I would not want to have any other group of girls by my side for it.
For me, my 14 years of softball are now just a memory, a very fond one. I still think back to all of the tournaments, my senior day, even my first Little League game — they are all a collection of who I am. Sometimes, I even listen to old voicemails my grandmother left me, asking about when my next game is, how I played or telling me how proud she was of me.
And often, I think about that bottom of the seventh inning — no outs, the 3-4-5 hitters due up, the score 9-8 — and how, even then, I somehow knew it would become one of the memories I would hold onto forever.
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