It was a cloudy afternoon in South Milwaukee in mid-July. This was the last regular season game of the year. We were winning the game and approaching victory. I laughed with my teammates in the dugout when I heard coach yell for a pinch hitter.

“19” he said, “19”.
I jump up and, in my nervous excitement, grab someone else’s bat. As I walk to the on deck circle, my mind repeats one thing over and over: This is it. This is it. And this is. This is my last season and my last at bat.

I approach the plate and get into my stance. I did this hundreds of times, but this is the only time that matters. I watch two balls go by. Please don’t walk me. The next pitch looks good to hit and I swing…foul tick. Next pitch bounces in the dirt. Ball three. I step out of the box and look down the foul line. I see my ,dad giving me a reassuring look, as if to say, “I believe in you.”
I step back in the box. The pitcher winds up and releases a belt high fastball. I bring the bat through the zone with 17 years of my life and thousands of hours of practice and… I did it. Perfect contact sends a shot over the shortstops head and into left field. I sprint to first base and round the corner. I hear my team cheering and I high five Coach.

As the play settles down and our next batter comes to the plate, I think to myself, well, at least I’m going out on top.