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Nine innings of nowhere else to be.

Box seats and blue skies.

Chalk lines, green grass, cold lemonade.

Peanuts, pop flies and a slow sunset.

Bottom of the ninth, top of my happiness.

Ballpark lights on a summer night ⚾

Seventh-inning stretch, fully stretched.

Glove oiled, cap low.

Infield dirt and good company.

A whole summer inside one scorecard.

The crack of the bat, then the roar.

Sunflower seeds and big dreams.

Bleachers.

Dugout.

Walk-off ⚾

Grand-slam.

Ballpark.

Bullpen.

Moonshot.

Doubleheader.

Extra-innings.

Stealing.

Outfield.

Diamond.

Sunburn on one arm, mustard on the other.

Brought a glove. Caught a hot dog wrapper in the wind.

I came for the game and ended up rating every nacho in section 112.

Missed the home run because I was in line for a pretzel. Classic me.

A foul ball came my way and I protected my lemonade instead.

Nine innings, four snacks, one nap in the seventh.

Stadium food prices are my cardio.

The mascot waved at me. I’m peaking.

I don’t know the score, but I know the lyrics to the organ song.

Rain delay, but my appetite was right on time. Tarp on the field, cheese fries on my lap.

Extra innings, extra fries, extra sunscreen needed.

Tried to start the wave. It stopped at me.

First pitch, cold drink, perfect seats 🌭

A day at the ballpark fixes most of the week.

Somewhere between the anthem and the final out, I forgot my phone existed.

Walk-off win and the whole stadium singing on the way out.

Scoreboard fireworks and a sky full of popcorn smell 🎆

Hot dogs taste better with a view of the outfield 🌭

Summer is a ballpark under the lights.

Section, row, seat and a whole lot of cheering.

Kiss cam dodged, foul ball dodged, great night.

Sat so high in the upper deck I could see the parking lot, the river and my entire future.

Doubleheader Sunday, and we stayed for both.

Nothing like the sound of the bat when the whole crowd stands.

One row, six friends, forty-two opinions about the umpire.

We don’t agree on teams, but we agree on nachos.

Friends who share their peanuts are friends for life.

Group trip to the ballpark and nobody knew the score by the fifth.

Cheap seats, loud friends, great night.

We lost track of the score somewhere around the third round of garlic fries and the second argument about the umpire 😂

Friends who catch foul balls for you are rarer than a triple play.

Same crew, same section, every summer.

Split a giant pretzel four ways. Growth.

We did the wave. We started the wave. We were the wave.

My friends came for the game. I came for the photo op.

Ballpark with the besties, bleachers to ourselves ⚾

Nine innings, one bag of peanuts, two people sharing it.

You caught the foul ball. I caught feelings.

Best date: bleacher seats and your jacket around my shoulders.

Our kind of romance has a seventh-inning stretch.

Matching caps, shared fries, one very long game.

You explain the infield fly rule. I pretend to follow. Love.

Kiss cam found us and we didn’t mind ❤️

Home is wherever we sit together at the ballpark.

Every summer game is better with you keeping score.

You had me at “let’s get hot dogs.”

You kept score in the little program and I kept looking at you instead of the field. Best game I never watched.

Our first date was a rain delay, and we’ve been sharing a poncho ever since ☔

Jersey, cap, lip gloss. Game day checklist done.

Here for the stats and the stadium lighting.

Pinstripes look better on me, just saying.

My jersey is oversized, my confidence is not.

Knows the batting order and the best selfie spot.

Came in a baseball tee and left with the whole row’s attention.

Ball cap, sunglasses, cheering louder than the guys.

Stadium fit on point, scorecard filled out in pen 💅

Don’t explain the game to me. I’ve been keeping score since I was eight.

Pretty in the stands, fierce on the field.

I know what a sacrifice fly is, I know where the good churros are and I know my angles 📸

Glove in the backpack, just in case.

Game on, phone down, hot dog in hand.

Swung hard at the batting cage. Missed harder.

Same cap for ten years, same seat, same order at the grill. Superstition or style, you decide.

Rec-league softball legend in my own mind.

Ballpark, box score, burger. Good day.

Still waiting for my foul ball. Year twelve.

Watching the pitcher like I’d do better. I wouldn’t. I can’t even throw a paper ball into the trash.

Summer plan: sunflower seeds and every home game.

Dad taught me to keep score. I taught him to keep up.

Dirt on the knees means I slid for it.

Little league, big dreams, oversized batting helmet.

Every evening in the backyard with Dad and a bucket of old balls was for this one at-bat ⚾

You strike out, you walk back, you pick up the bat again.

The season ends. The glove stays by the door.

Baseball taught me patience, one pitch at a time.

End of season: a trophy, a scraped elbow and a team I’ll miss.

Sunflower seeds in the dugout and stories nobody else gets.

Coach said keep your eye on the ball. I’m still doing it, in everything.

Some summers are measured in innings.

Thank you, Coach, for every grounder you hit us after practice, even when the lights were already on.