The softball field was where Grandpa Raisin and I shriveled together in the sun. Every day was the same: stretch, catch, and warm-up. But to me, those dusty hours meant everything.

He was as wrinkly and sweet as a sun-dried grape. Being around him meant a constant stream of giggles from jokes and past stories. "They used to call me Captain Hook because my hook shot was so clean!" His love wrapped around you like a big, invisible hug. We spent almost all our time right there in the dirt.

The Raisin Grandpa was sweet but could also be sour. 

We were running out of time and light. The sun dipped low, turning the dirt to gold. Bottom of the eighth, tied up, and bases loaded. The winning run was just a short sprint away. Two outs. My heart felt like a pounding drum in the quiet field.

In and out. In and out. The world was playing tricks on me. The seams of the ball were growing into giant red mountain ranges, while my hand was shrinking. The pressure in my chest was like a heavy backpack I couldn't take off. 3-2. This was the moment. One. More. Strike.