The Last Inning

When we were kids,

the world was small enough

to fit in a backyard

and big enough

to hold every dream we had.

You were Jose Canseco,

power in your swing,

confidence loud and fearless.

I was Pudge Rodriguez,

steady behind the plate,

trusting you to bring it home.

Same dirt on our shoes.

Same sunburned afternoons.

Same belief that if we played long enough,

nothing would ever change.

We didn’t talk about the future.

We just assumed it would include each other—

like cousins always do,

like best friends always promise

without saying the words.

Somewhere along the way,

the seasons stopped lining up.

Different paths.

Different lives.

Different versions of who we had to become

just to survive.

Now years sit between us

like unopened letters.

No fights.

No big goodbye.

Just silence that grew

while we weren’t looking.

I still think of you

when memories get soft—

when laughter used to come easy,

when belonging didn’t feel complicated.

I still remember us

before adulthood taught us

how to drift.

You don’t know me anymore.

Maybe you don’t even think of me.

But I still carry that kid

who stood at the plate

trusting his cousin

to be there.

And even now,

part of me hopes

that somewhere inside you,

you remember us too—

not as strangers,

not as silence,

but as two kids

on the same team,

believing we were unstoppable.