The Championship

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After last week’s game, there was a high. We had beaten the first-place seed, not just beaten them, but come from behind and dusted off the psychological ghosts of games past. Knowing you beat the best team, that you were down and didn’t fold but bore down and made it happen, it’s a powerful feeling, almost intoxicating. You knew you could do it, but now you had. Theory became reality.

So this was our game to win, and with that comes its own kind of angst. But you take a breath, like always, and go back to the basics: see the ball, hit the ball. Take each play as its own little world and live in that moment, play by play, until you create your game.

The Five Star Gold was our last hurdle, the obstacle to our goal. We had to find our way through, around, under, and over until we were victorious. Our D2 division had fifty teams, and Gold was the number-two seed. We had never played them before. Arriving just before the game started, I didn’t get a chance to see them field or get a sense of their energy. It doesn’t usually matter; good warm-ups don’t always translate under pressure. Metaphors and aphorisms can cut both ways.

We got off to a slow start, but the good news was we were making contact. Hitting the ball and timing the pitcher eventually lead to good things. We were the away team but couldn’t produce a run after the first inning. The Gold managed to convert one run after two errors in their half. Luckily, we got out of the first only one run down. The parents were pacing along the third-base line. “They’re just warming up, it’s cold out,” one said. It was nice to have a reason. I nodded, though I couldn’t help thinking the other team was outside too. Didn’t they feel the cold?

In the second inning we started to heat up, scoring two runs and taking a 2–1 lead. The wind started to blow again. We cooled off until the fourth, when a pitching change let us break through for four more. Suddenly it was 6–1. We were quietly optimistic, some of us a little louder, but cautious not to jinx it, just staying positive. Our pitching and fielding were outstanding, shutting the other team out for three more innings.

By the fifth inning, it was 8–1. The cold wind that had been cutting through was forgotten as the clouds parted and we basked in the fall sun. In the sixth, we were on fire. The other team began to unravel. It’s the oldest cliché in baseball: it all comes down to pitching. We were hitting, yes, but also drawing walks, grinding out at-bats, playing with rhythm and confidence. You could feel it; the whole team was a unit, and they were all feeding and contributing to this win.

Then Kevin came to the plate with the bases loaded and drove the stake in with a bomb to the outfield, clearing the bases for three runs. Like Icarus, he flew too close to the sun, trying to stretch a double into a triple, and got caught. I was jumping around myself like a kid hoping he’d make it, but he did his job and gave them mercy.

Now up 15–1, the Gold had one last chance. Three at-bats, three outs. Joe, who had pitched all six innings of this championship game, finished like a star, striking out the final batter swinging. For a moment, time froze. Then the outfield crashed in, all the boys running to the mound, piling on one another in a swirl of laughter and joy.

Just like that, we had champions in our midst. What an arc from our last fall season.

For James, it was his first championship win on any team. So many runner-up finishes, so many consolation prizes. So close, so many times. It made me realize why this was the right time and why it felt deeper. He finally had the right team, a group of kids who loved and cared about doing the thing they loved. Maybe that’s what made it hit deeper. You only learn how to win by learning how not to. This victory wasn’t luck; it was layered with all the years of almosts, all the bruises and disappointments, all the small lessons that built the resilience to finally finish the job.

As the team gathered for the photo, faces flushed, caps tilted, medals being bitten in the midday light, you could feel something bigger than baseball. It was joy, sure, but also proof. Proof that grit, patience, and faith in one another can build something lasting.

That’s the beauty of a championship. It’s the journey, the stumbles, the rise, the shared heartbeat of a team that finally believed it could get there.