Sundays, Baseball & Butterflies

Dear Rob,

This morning, my alarm went off at 7:00 a.m., and for a moment, I was so confused. I didn’t want to go to work. Then I realized—it’s not work. I have to get to baseball.

This is your second year of missing Fall Ball.

You would have loved it.

You would love that Charlie is continuing to play baseball and getting ready for his spring season. But you weren’t here last year, and you aren’t here this year.

The night before you died, you watched Charlie’s team play a beautiful game. A game without errors. Everyone got a hit. You were smiling from ear to ear.

You hugged Charlie, and you were so proud of him.

You told him, “This is how I want you to play at every game. Give it your best every inning. Be a leader, and always do what is right.”

That was the last game you ever watched.

Although your death still brings me so much confusion and sadness, I am incredibly thankful that you were given one beautiful moment with Charlie before you were taken from us so suddenly.

Our baseball years started with Anders.

You loved how Anders was such a natural athlete. He loved playing first base, and then Micah put him in as a pitcher. He did so well, and you were so darn proud of him.

You loved watching from behind home plate. You loved how calm Anders was.

But underneath that calmness, he confessed that he hated being a pitcher. He hated the spotlight. He hated people staring at him. He hated the thought of hitting another player.

You told him he would do great and encouraged him to get back out there.

There were a lot of tears.

And eventually, Anders decided he was done with baseball.

You were so disappointed.

Then came Chucky.

He was driven. He knew what he was doing. He watched YouTube videos. He gave 100% at every practice.

Then Charlie made the Lake Elmo 9AA team.

When I told you, you stopped playing your computer game. You smiled, walked over to Charlie, and gave him a big hug.

I can still picture it.

At one of the games, you looked at me and said, “Charlie is me. He hustles. He loves the sport. He’s not playing for fun. He’s playing to win.”

And you were right.

So every year that Charlie played baseball, you were one proud dad.

You loved that Charlie loved to pitch—and that he was good at it. He also played shortstop very well, your favorite position.

Today, I drove to White Bear for Charlie’s two games. I was hoping to sleep in, but we had to leave the house by 8:30 a.m.!

As I arrived and started gathering all my things to put in the wagon, my thoughts turned to you.

I remembered being pregnant with Vivian when Anders was playing baseball.

If, for some reason, you couldn’t be at the game because Charlie had a game, you would always tell me, “Watch for the ball.”

And when you were with me, if you ever heard someone yell, “Heads up!” you immediately looked up and made sure you were standing in front of me.

You were always in protective mode.

One year, a ball flew in our direction, toward your mother. You took the hit.

You were left with a giant bruise.

Of course, you protected everyone—even if it meant getting hurt yourself.

So today, as I sat and watched our Charlie play ball, I thought of you every time I heard, “Heads up!”

I thought about how much you would have LOVED being there. How you would have cheered for Charlie and his team. How you would have sat next to me and Priscilla, just like you used to.

You would sit there quietly, watching every play, while I chatted with Priscilla.

The boys won their first game, 23–3.

Charlie didn’t pitch today, and that was okay.

His shoulder was bothering him.

I massaged his shoulder and put Salonpas on it.

You always said I babied Charlie too much—even when it came to baseball.

That hasn’t changed one bit.

A year ago, watching baseball on my own was so hard.

It was hard not having you there beside me.

But now, I’m beginning to get used to it.

And somehow, that makes me sad too.

Because I don’t want to get used to you not being here.

I wish more than anything that you were here.

You should be here.

You should be sitting next to me.

You should be watching Charlie play.

You should be cheering.

You should be telling him to hustle.

You should be telling me I’m babying him too much.

You should be here.

But throughout the baseball game today, two butterflies kept flying right in front of me.

And again, I know it was a sign from you.

You were there.

You were watching Charlie.

You were watching over us.

Just like you always did.

I miss you more than words could ever say.

And after the game, we went to Punch Pizza—your favorite.

The last time we went there, we were celebrating our wedding anniversary. We brought the kids with us, hung out, laughed, and enjoyed the pizza you loved.

So tonight, sitting there with the kids and eating your favorite pizza, it felt like the perfect way to end the day.

A day filled with baseball.

A day filled with memories of you.

A day where I missed you terribly.

But also a day where, in little ways, you felt close.

I wish you could have been sitting there with us.

I wish you could have watched Charlie play.

I wish you could have told me I was babying him too much.

I wish you were here.

But maybe, just maybe, you were.

Maybe those two butterflies were your way of reminding me that even though I can’t see you, you’re still watching.

Still protecting.