Wishing on Dandelions

“Dandelions—now that’s one tough weed, I tell ya. If you’re the glass-half-full sort, like your gran’ ma was, you might say they start out all bright and yella, like little bits of sunshine scattered ‘cross the yard. But then, just like that, overnight, the pretty’s gone. What you’ve got left is a stubborn ol’ taproot buried deeper than sin, ugly spiky leaves stickin’ out of the root crown—like it’s mad at the world, and a mess o’ seeds ridin’ the wind, lookin’ for fresh ground to cause more trouble. And sure as summer’s long, they’ll be back again.”

I wiggled on my Papa’s lap as the old rocking chair creaked beneath us, the wood warm from the day’s heat. The air smelled of pipe tobacco and honeysuckle, sweet and smoky all at once. His beard—sprinkled with coal dust, brushed my cheek now and again, scratchy in a way that made me giggle.

In my hand, I turned a dandelion by its slender green stem, the flower long gone to seed. It sagged a little under its own weight, the white fluff trembling in the evening breeze. The best part, I thought, was the wishes—the ones you made with your eyes shut tight, breath held, heart steady. I already knew mine; it was the same wish I’d made on every dandelion I’d ever picked, the same wish I’d whispered to every bit of fluff I’d caught drifting through the air. By now, I figured I had a whole bank full of wishes just waiting to come true.

We didn’t have much. We just had an old farmhouse at the end of a long dirt road, its white porch paint peeling under the weather’s constant assault. Every morning, Papa liked to sit there before his shift, boots resting on the railing, thermos and lunch pail beside him, before heading out to work in the mines. Most men around here did. It was a good, honest job, and jobs were hard to come by.

That morning, the yard was scattered with dandelions in their fluffy white splendor. I plucked the tallest one I could find, its seeds quivering in the early light. The sun was already warm on my shoulders, and the air smelled faintly of lilacs. I closed my eyes, saw the mitt I wanted in my mind—a Rawlings Heart of the Hide, the kind I’d only ever seen in magazines, its tan steerhide leather stitched with care. I imagined the weight of it on my hand, the perfect sound it would make when the ball hit the pocket. I held the wish as long as I could… then I let it fly.

I never thought to wish for Papa’s safety.

The blast came before noon. Gas, they said later. Trapped thirty-seven men two miles underground. None of them came home alive.

The house felt different after that day. Quieter. Even the floorboards seemed to creak less. Ma stopped humming when she cooked. The chair on the porch stayed empty, his house shoes lined up by the door like they were waiting for him. I didn’t understand how something so big could just… stop.

And so I went back in my mind. Back to those mornings when the grass was cool and damp beneath my bare feet, and the sky seemed to stretch on forever. When I’d lie there staring up, seeing dragons in the clouds and hearing music in every shift of the breeze. When butterflies weren’t just insects—they were friends, each carrying some secret I was sure I could learn if I followed them long enough. When I chased the wind with my hands out, convinced that forever was real and that trees could talk if I listened closely enough. When the whole world felt like it was waiting to be unwrapped, like a stack of birthday gifts piled just for me. When my heart was wide open, ready to believe, ready to love, ready to please.

I remembered when there was no weight behind me, no shadow ahead—just the warm pull of the sun and the sound of my own laughter breaking open the day. Every moment felt like the beginning of something wonderful, and the magic… it never faded. It lived in me, as constant as the wind, as certain as a wish on a dandelion.

I wanted to be back there again…where pain didn’t exist.

“My Papa used to say, ‘Jesse, life ain’t linear, boy. You gotta fight those hard times—fight ’em hard. Life is what you put into it.’”

***

The baseball diamond wasn’t much. It was just a patch of grass worn thin around the bases, a leaning backstop, and chalk lines fading in the sun. But to me, it was Yankee Stadium.

I stepped into the batter’s box, the pitcher wound up, and the ball came spinning toward me. I swung, felt the sweet pop of the bat, and the ball sailed high over the shortstop’s head.

From the stands—just a few rows of splintered benches—I heard him. “Atta boy, Jesse! That’s my son!” Papa’s voice rang out, and for that moment, he was there.

I wasn’t great. Not then, anyway. I was short for my age, quick on my feet but easy to overlook in a lineup. Ma didn’t have the money for proper gear, so I played in hand-me-down clothes and used a glove that had already seen more seasons than I had. My bat had someone else’s name carved into the handle, the wood worn smooth where their fingers used to grip it.

But I showed up. Every practice. Every game. I ran hard even when we were down by ten. I dove for balls I had no business reaching. I swung until my hands blistered. I didn’t have the shine some kids had—no new cleats, no perfect swing—but I had resilience. I knew how to take root in hard ground and endure.

I hit the books as hard as I hit the ball. Late nights, early mornings, no excuses. And by the grace of God, it paid off. I earned a scholarship to a state college in our home town—close enough for Ma to come to games, big enough to get the scouts’ attention. For the first time, the majors didn’t feel like a dream. They felt like the next step.

***

It happened the summer before my sophomore year. I’d taken a job hauling supplies at the quarry to help cover what the scholarship didn’t. Just another hot day, dust in my mouth, sweat blurring my eyes. I was moving a load when the chain on the hoist gave way.

The sound was like a rifle shot. Then pain — blinding, bone-deep—as the crate slammed into my shoulder. I woke up in the hospital, arm in a sling, Ma’s hand trembling in mine. The doctors said the nerve damage was permanent. I could play catch, sure. But I could never throw with the speed or strength that had gotten me noticed.

For weeks, I avoided the ballfield. I couldn’t stand to see other players stretching, throwing, laughing. It felt like watching a life I’d been cut out of.

I eventually lost my scholarship and had to leave school.

After that, I mowed down every damn dandelion I saw—ours, the neighbours’. It didn’t matter. I hated them all.

When the last stalk fell, I dropped to the ground, the chopped weeds clinging to my shirt, the smell of cut grass sharp in my nose.

Overhead, the clouds were low and heavy, ready to burst. My chest ached, my breath coming hard. “How is this fair?” I cried. “How is life fair?”

The first drops landed warm against my skin, and then the sky gave way. I didn’t move. I let the rain soak me through, as if it might find a way to reach the hollow place where my dream used to live.

***

For a while, I drifted. Picked up odd jobs, kept my head down, avoided anything that reminded me of the game.

Then one Saturday, Ma mentioned that Mrs. Jenkins down the road needed help at the town’s community garden. “It’s for the kids’ program,” she said, sliding the flyer toward me like it was nothing. I told her I wasn’t the right person for it. She just shrugged and said, “Maybe you’re exactly the right person.”

The next weekend, I found myself hauling bags of soil under the hot sun, the smell of tomato plants thick in the air. A handful of kids darted between the rows, their shoes muddy, their laughter cutting through the hum of bees. I told myself I was just there to move dirt and fix a broken fence, but when a boy asked if I could show him how to plant his seedling straight, I crouched down without thinking. By the time we’d patted the soil into place, I realized I’d been smiling.

The group facilitator asked if I’d come back the following week for their baseball day. They were thinking of starting a team. Surprisingly, I said yes.

The next Saturday, I walked up to the little community park. A cluster of kids were waiting on the field, clutching mismatched gloves and wearing caps that slid down over their ears.

A man in a faded coach’s cap looked me over.

“You any good at this game?”

“A little,” I said.

That was the start of the Little Tigers — a ragtag co-ed team I coached that year. We only won a few games, but those kids had heart. They showed up, they tried, and they stuck it out. At the end of the season, every one of them went home with a Most Improved trophy. Every one of them earned it.

I loved teaching the kids to play ball. They didn’t know it, but that season, they taught me just as much. They reminded me what it felt like to be a kid again—to live fully in the moment, to find beauty in the smallest things. That worms deserve names. That a lemonade stand can be built from branches and twigs. And that, if you’re determined enough, lemonade can be made from mushed-up dandelions.

I enjoyed it so much I committed to a second season.

One Saturday before practice, I noticed one of the younger boys wandering toward me. He wore a Yankees jersey a size too big, the sleeves flapping at his elbows. In his hand was a dandelion gone to seed. He stopped in front of me, closed his eyes, and blew. The seeds lifted into the breeze, spinning away like tiny silver parachutes.

“I wished to be a great baseball player, just like you” he said, grinning.

I crouched down so we were eye to eye. “Anything’s possible,” I told him. “If you work at it.”

He nodded, smiling in that way kids do when they believe you completely.

The season went by in a blur of dusty afternoons and scraped knees. On the last day, the kids gathered around me, whispering and shoving each other forward until one of them held out a small, carefully cut cardboard star covered in gold glitter. In the middle, in shaky black marker, it read: Best Baseball Coach Ever.

I turned it over in my hands, the glue still tacky, and felt something warm settle in my chest. All those wishes I’d made as a boy had come true—just not in the way I’d imagined. I glanced up at the open sky and hoped Papa could see it too.

I had wished to be a baseball star.

Turns out, I became something better.