A Game of Symbols

TW: Themes of loss

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My eyelids drooped and my surroundings swirled as I imagined my therapist's voice reminding me of our grounding exercise. “5-4-3-2-1,”

5, The green grass of the baseball field was vibrant in the sunlight. The bases were clearly marked with white chalk. Professionals in colorful jerseys and baseball caps ran around the field, their fans cheering from the stands.

4, The cement felt burnt and coarse under my feet as I walked towards our seats. The plastic seat was now hard and cool against my back. As I sat down, I bathed in the sun's warmth and the gentle breeze that blew through my hair.

3, The crack of a baseball bat echoed through the air, followed by cheers and shouts from the players and spectators. The umpire's voice could be heard calling strikes and balls.

2, The sweat and dirt of the players as they ran and slid on the field tinged in the air.

1, The saltiness of the sunflower seeds lingered on my tongue as I mindlessly viewed the game before me.

It didn’t work.

I don't even like baseball, yet here I am with my husband, watching the ninth inning of a major league game sponsored by the Little League, with no children of ours participating.

As the game continued, my mind drifted to the therapy sessions I had been attending. The grounding exercise never seemed to work for me, no matter how hard I tried to focus on my surroundings. I glanced over at my husband, his eyes fixed on the game and a small smile playing on his lips. Despite his efforts to support me through my struggles, I still felt terribly alone in my own mind.

Suddenly, a loud cheer erupted from the crowd as a man in a red jersey hit a home run. Watching him round the bases, I couldn't help noticing what looked like his parents cheering at the edge of their box. A twinge of nostalgia flooded through my body.

Though, the nostalgia was fleeting. It faded as soon as it came, leaving me hollow once again. I sighed and slumped back in my chair, the hard metal screws digging into my skin. Loathingly, I glanced around the stands, and out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Tristan's baseball cap sitting askew on his head. That cap.

I specifically asked him earlier to wear the Little League logo hat, but instead, he stood before me wearing the logo of his beloved MLB team, the SF Giants. Not only that, but the Little League had requested everyone wear their logoed hats. He knew the weight of today on my heart—the entire reason we are here—yet he showed no effort to even wear the correct cap.

My hands twitched with the urge to reach over and yank it off his head. Toss it onto the field and watch it get trampled into the grass. But I stopped myself.

"Honey,” my voice held a hint of frustration and strain, “I asked you to wear the Little League cap today. Why are you wearing that one?"

"This one feels right to me. Besides, the Giants are the ones playing." Tristan’s eyes were still glued to the game ahead. The outfielder crouched with his glove open, ready to catch a high fly ball. But as it descended, he miscalculated and it bounced off his fingertips and onto the grass. The opposing team cheered as their runners sprinted to advance their positions. I clenched my fists in frustration while feeling empathy for the fielder's mistake. Reluctantly, I shifted my focus back to the argument.

"But today isn’t about that,” My voice stuttered as I tried to figure out what to say next in real time, “It’s about supporting our community and showing unity. We agreed on the Little League hats. It's not just about what feels right for you.”

Tristan’s eyes narrow with determination, his voice sharpening like a blade. "I don’t remember agreeing to that, Grace. I thought it was just a suggestion. But this cap means everything to me as well."

"It’s more than a suggestion. It’s a symbol of us being together in this. Of showing everyone we’re on the same page."

"And this cap is a symbol for me, Grace.”

“But we need to do things together,” I pleaded, my desperate tone bordering on defeat. “We have to be together.”

"I understand, but sometimes I need to do things my way."

My voice finally broke in half, "Don’t you understand why this matters to me. Why can’t you just wear the hat we agreed on?"

His shoulders tensed slightly, and his gaze pierced mine. “Maybe I can’t see it the way you do,” he admitted quietly. “But can’t you see how much this means to me?”

The final batter stepped to the plate, swinging hard and missing twice. The crowd groaned with each strike, the tension palpable.

“I thought we were supposed to be in this together, Tristian,” My voice quivered with emotion. “I thought we understood each other.”

He hesitated, and vulnerability bloomed into his expression. “We are. And I hear you, Grace. I do.”

“Then why can’t you just...” My words trailed off as tears threatened to spill from my eyes. “Why can’t you just... just wear the damn hat we agreed on?”

The batter swung on the third pitch, and the ball soared over the outfield fence—a home run. Fans jumped to their feet, clapping and yelling in excitement.

Amidst the chaos, Tristian’s gaze softened as he met my tear-filled eyes. “It’s not just about the hat, Grace,” he whispered. “It’s about... It’s about holding onto something stable amid all this uncertainty.”

My heart clenched, and the flood of frustration crumbled under the weight of his admission.

As the last out was called, a sudden shift in the atmosphere enveloped us.

Every player, coach, and trainer gathered in a circle on the field for the closing ceremony. I glanced at Tristian, who met my gaze gently. Without a word, we both stood and made our way to the center of the diamond, joining the other families.

The announcer’s voice broke through the quiet, calling out each name in turn—names of children who should have been watching with us. Tristian and I stood side by side, our hands finding each other’s in a silent gesture of solidarity. And then, as if by unspoken agreement, we spoke together:

“Tristian Ferrell.”

“Grace Ferrell.”

And finally, in a voice that trembled with both sorrow and love:

“Griffin Ferrell.”

The moment hung suspended in time. In a single heartbeat, the fog of our argument dissipated and was replaced by a searing realization of the unbreakable bond that transcended all differences. My heart stopped as I looked up at the jumbotron. Hot tears streamed down our cheeks as I squeezed Tristan's hand, our gazes fixed on the image flickering above us all. There he was, my Griffin: smiling, alive, and wearing Tristan's SF Giants hat.