There’s a kind of magic that happens at a little league field just before sunset. Tthe kind that doesn’t need special effects or soundtracks, just the hum of families unpacking chairs and the sound of kids laughing like they haven’t yet learned what disappointment feels like. The lights flicker on, one by one, flooding the field in a glow that somehow makes even the chain-link fence look cinematic. It’s twenty minutes before the Bisons play their last regular-season game against their rivals, The Sea Dogs. For once, everyone’s early.
Work is still chaos. Somewhere, a database is waiting for me to make sense of it, and a dozen emails are conspiring to ruin tomorrow morning. But right now, none of that matters. I’m sitting in a collapsible chair that probably wasn’t meant for anyone over five-foot-ten, next to a wagon full of snacks and hoodies, watching Breccan and his friends stretch and joke in the outfield. They’re trying to look serious, but they can’t stop smiling. They’re kids on the edge of something that feels big to them, and in this moment, big to me, too.
The air has cooled just enough that the evening feels like a gift. Parents chat about holiday plans, and someone’s grandmother hands out candy from a Ziploc bag like it’s communion. The smell of concession-stand burgers drifts over the field, and someone’s Bluetooth speaker softly plays “Sweet Caroline,” because apparently, there’s a law that it must.
I catch myself thinking how easy it is to miss this: these small, ordinary moments that end up meaning everything. Between deadlines and dinners, bills and bedtime routines, we move so fast that life becomes a series of checkboxes.
But sitting here, watching the field glow against the darkening sky, I realize this is it. This is the point. Not the promotions or the projects or even the perfect Christmas lights I’ll inevitably tangle myself in later. It’s this, leaning into the little moments, the ones that won’t happen again quite like this.
When the umpire calls, “Play ball,” and the crowd cheers, I feel that rare and quiet satisfaction of being exactly where I’m supposed to be. For now, the world can wait. Tonight, it’s just the Bisons, the field, and the people I love most, breathing in the good kind of chaos.