Hard wooden bleachers, cool evening air, the smell of popcorn and laffy taffy and dust and sweat, bright overhead lights punctuating the brilliant glowing sunset. Around me, people sit on their blankets and pillows, wiggling children squirm up and down the bleachers or beg to go play in the sand pile on the other side of the field, beg for money to buy another ring pop. Cars parked near the woods or the playground to avoid fly balls. Conversation, laughter, jibes, what is the score? What’s up with the ref? How many innings? I’ll pay your kid $5 if he’ll hit it over the fence this time. C’mon boys, get it together! Everyone knows everyone. From the dugout and the outfield, excited voices chant, “Swing batta, batta, swing!” They have black makeup under their eyes and for tonight, their friends on the other team are their ultimate enemies. They’re tied for first place in the league and every point counts.

My mom and grandma sit on the row in front of me. My dad keeps score near the fence and reminds the batters of the lineup, pulls discarded bats off the field, searches for missing gloves. I fidget on the hard wood seat, trying to find comfort in the weather-worn slab beneath me. I was prepared to be bored, for my attention to wander (will I see anyone I knew from high school?), but there is tension in the air. It may be only Little League, but this is deeply serious and grandmothers are getting bitter. Cheering and clapping, groans and yells reverberate around the stands as luck shifts from side to side. 14 years ago I watched my younger brother from these stands and willed one of the boys on his team to fall in love with me – or to at least hold my hand.  Now my youngest brother is playing and I just hope he doesn’t strike out. Thankfully, he gets on base. How can six innings last two hours? The lady sitting next to me used to give me Tootsie Roll Pops when I was very little and accompanied my mom to the grocery store. She’s a grandmother many times over now. I had no idea she could be so feisty.

The innings finally wind down. In spite of myself, I count every ball, strike, and out. I clap my hand to my mouth when the excitement gets too high, throw my hands up into the air and yell. The score is 13 to 12. We won. The little boys line up to to slap the other team’s hands in a false show of sportsmanship. Bryce stands before me, beaming and stinky, Mountain Dew in hand. He’s coming home with me to spend the night and informs me that he has already downed a Red Bull and another pop. Oh boy.