text: Sam slumped in the dugout, the Texas sun scorching his back, yet unable to warm the chill running through him. The sounds of laughter and shouts from the baseball diamond faded into a dull hum as he twisted a worn cap in his hands. His teammates--friends from school--were caught up in the fun of the game, but for Sam, every crack of the bat only tightened the knot in his gut. Today, it wasn’t just his strikeouts at the plate and bobbled balls on the field that had him down. His mind was clouded by thoughts of his parents’ marriage, or rather, what was left of it. He could still hear their recent argument--his father’s biting accusations and his mother’s bitter tears. Then, his dad had stormed out, leaving behind the house, the mess, and Sam. His mother, buried in work and her own grief, hadn’t been able to help him make sense of it all. Most days, she was barely able to help herself. Sam felt abandoned by both parents, his heart aching with a loneliness heavier than the early summer heat. Suddenly, the dugout felt like a cage. Not just because of his bad plays, but because of the guilt gnawing at him, a nagging feeling that somehow, it was his fault his dad had left. What was wrong with him? “Hey, kid!” Sam turned around, startled. Just outside the chain-link fence that separated the stands from the dugout, a man stood, tall and broad-shouldered, in a gray pinstripe suit and white pocket square that ended in three crisp points. His fedora swept across his face that couldn’t hide a sly grin, like he knew something that Sam didn’t. Sam thought he looked like a mobster from a 1930s movie. “Can I help you?” Sam asked, his voice barely above a whisper. “No, but I can help you ,” the man said, his grin widening. “Check your glove.” Sam froze for a moment, his mind spinning. Was this a prank set up by his teammates? He wasn’t in the mood, but curiosity got the best of him. Something about this man felt...different. Cautiously, he reached for his worn glove. Inside, cradled in the leather, was a box of Cracker Jack. The sailor boy on the box, along with his little white dog, smiled up at him, as if they were all old friends. “What the heck?” Sam muttered. ”How did this get in my glove?” “Doesn’t matter,” Gangster Man replied. “What matters is the swell prize inside.” Sam’s instincts told him not to accept gifts from strangers, especially strange men in pinstripes who appeared out of nowhere. But when he looked up to give it back, the man was gone. Just...vanished. At home that night, Sam lay in bed, the Cracker Jack boy and his canine friend staring at him from his dresser across the room. He’d never been a big risk-taker, but at this point, what did he have to lose? His life was already screwed up. He jumped out of bed and tore into the box. Out spilled the usual candy-coated popcorn, peanuts--and the prize of a solid-gold man’s ring with a setting of brilliant gemstones that sparkled like stars, arranged in the shape of a baseball diamond. Sam stared at the ring for a moment. This was no cheap toy; it was a gleaming work of art, heavy in his hand. In the center of the setting, a big pearl sat with two curved rows of tiny rubies, making it look like stitching on a pristine baseball. Sam did the next logical thing. He slipped the ring on his finger. It fit like a hula hoop around a twig. He spun it around a few times. Maybe I’ll grow into it , he thought. Sam was about to pull off the ring when it slowly and visibly tightened around his finger, sending a surge of fear and fascination through his veins. The jewel at home plate suddenly emitted a soft blue glow. Sam didn’t even realize that his mouth had dropped open in wonder as another jewel, positioned at first base, joined in the luminous display, followed by the gemstones at second and third base. The air around Sam seemed to crackle with energy when the circuit of jewels was completed, ending in a brilliant burst of azure fire at home plate. And then, as if on cue, the baseball pearl at the center of it all began to spin. Gracefully, the gleaming white orb rose from its setting, hovering in the air before Sam’s astonished gaze. With a gentle hum, it drifted forward, leaving a trail of sparkling blue energy in its wake. Suddenly the pearl stopped and twitched for a moment before tracing a delicate line of electric-blue fire in thin air. Transfixed, Sam moved nothing but his eyes, following the lustrous jewel as it slowly carved a geometric shape. Sam was so stunned by the hypnotic movement and flaming blue lines that he didn’t immediately recognize the form materializing before him. It was only when the contours of the five-sided figure were nearly complete, the angles of its edges unmistakably familiar, that realization blasted him like a jet of water from a fire hose. It was a giant home plate! Just beyond the mystical pentagon, vibrant red, white, and blue bands shimmered and danced, reminding Sam of a patriotic aurora borealis. “Take Me Out to the Ballgame” played from somewhere in an otherworldly tone. Sam blinked, trying to wrap his mind around what was happening. Was this... some kind of doorway? Suddenly, the pentagon began to shrink. He knew he had to act fast. “I’m probably gonna regret this,” Sam whispered. With a deep breath, he stepped through. In an instant, he was in a dugout, but not the one he’d sat in just a few hours ago. This place was perfect. The dirt looked like finely-sifted cocoa powder, the grass impossibly green. Overhead, the sky stretched out in a deep, unbroken blue, and the air was warm but comfortably mild--not the hellish heat of Texas. It was perfect shirt-sleeve weather, and the ball field before Sam the most beautiful he had ever seen. “Hey, kid.” The voice was familiar. Sam turned, his eyes widening in disbelief. There stood the gangster man from earlier-but now he donned a wool-blend uniform with IRONMEN emblazoned across the chest in a sturdy, block font. The flat-topped cap on his head bore a prominent “P.” A bolt of revelation struck Sam. “I recognize you now! You’re Grand Slam Granderson of the Pittsburgh Ironmen! You still hold the record for the most grand slams.” Grand Slam gave a regal bow. “But you can’t be here,” Sam said incredulously. “You're...you’re dead.” “Don’t believe everything you read,” Grand Slam said with a beaming smile. He motioned toward the field with a sweep of his muscled arms. “Welcome to the Happy Batting Grounds, heaven for us baseball gods. We help people like you with life’s curveballs.” Sam barely had time to process what was happening before uniformed figures began to materialize on the field. One by one, legends of the game--Babe Ruth, Jackie Robinson, and more--came walking toward him, their smiles broad and inviting. “You're about to find out that these guys weren’t just ball players,” Granderson explained. ”They were flesh-and-blood men. They had battles--just like you.” Babe stepped forward first, his Brooklyn accent rough but kind. “I grew up in a school for wayward boys, kid. My folks sent me away when I was seven. It was tough, but I kept swinging.” Jackie stepped up next. “Breaking the color barrier wasn’t easy. There were so many who hated me for it--angry fans, hostile players, even death threats lurking in the shadows. But I couldn’t let that stop me. I loved the game too much to walk away." His voice was steady, but filled with the weight of his memories. A sweet breeze drifted in as he continued. “I knew I had something bigger to prove--not just for myself, but for my people. Baseball was my platform, my way to show the world what a black man could do. It was about challenging the prejudices of the past and paving the way for future generations. Every time I stepped on that field, I was swinging not just for myself, but for everyone who dreamed of a better future.” One by one, the legends shared their stories--about loss, hardships, and self-doubt. When they were finished, Sam spoke. “Did you ever feel like giving up?” he asked softly. He wasn't just asking about their baseball careers--he was asking about their lives. Jackie was the first to respond, stepping forward with a gentle nod. “More times than I can count, kid. There were days when it felt like no matter what I did, the world was stacked against me.” Babe added, “I’ve been knocked down plenty. I lost my parents when I was a kid; my wife died in a fire; I hit 714 home runs, but struck out 1330 times. You couldn’t beat me, though, because I'd always get back up.” Grand Slam looked directly into Sam’s eyes, his voice quiet but firm. “You have to keep swinging, kid, even if you have two strikes, it’s the bottom of the ninth, and your team's down. It’s the only way to hit a home run--on the field and in real life.” “Enough talkin’!” Babe bellowed, picking up a bat. “Let’s play ball!” Sam laughed as the legends shrank into kids, ready for a game. He dove in, giving it everything he had. His team lost, 2-1, but Sam scored the only run on an RBI single, and for the first time in a long time, he felt unburdened. He was still sad about the situation at home, but he no longer carried the weight of it all alone. The game had given him something his folks couldn’t provide at the present time--a reminder that life, like baseball, was full of second chances. He realized now that he could keep playing, keep swinging, no matter how many strikes came his way. There was always another at-bat, another chance to step up and try again. And for the first time, that felt like enough. After the game, Grand Slam, back to his adult form, pulled Sam aside. “Take the ring off and you’ll be home. But whenever you need a shot in the arm, you can slip it back on.” Sam smiled as they shook hands. “Thank you, Mr. Granderson,” he said. “Call me Grand Slam,” he replied with a wink. Sam slipped on the ring and, as the cheers of the baseball legends faded away, he found himself back in his room. The next weekend, Sam was on his usual field under the blazing Texas sun. His mom was at work at her job as a hospital nurse, and his dad was who-knows-where. And that was okay. Sam knew now that his mom had her own grief to work through, and he'd be there if she needed him. And he no longer felt guilt about his dad leaving. That was his choice, not Sam's. Sam had his own stuff to work through, and though he couldn't fix the past, he would learn to live with it. As he stepped into the batter’s box for his first at-bat, he thought of the ring--tucked safely away in an old Cracker Jack box--and the legends he’d played ball with. And he knew he wasn’t alone in his struggles. He had his team, hope that his folks would find healing and learn to move forward, and the ring--just in case he needed to return to a certain mystical ball field for some extra encouragement. With new-found confidence, Sam faced the pitcher, choking up on his bat and narrowing his eyes--just like Grand Slam used to do. He didn’t know if he’d hit the ball, but one thing was certain: he’d give it everything he had. Whether on the field or in life, he’d keep swinging. Errors and all.