Some love stories start with grand gestures or chance encounters in crowded cafes. Ours began in the humble dugouts of our local baseball field, where summer leagues and teenage dreams intertwined. I was the girl who loved the game as much as he did, and he was the boy in the Royals cap who couldn't stop smiling.
Middle school turned into high school, and baseball games transformed into school dances. Under fluorescent lights and streamers, we swayed to songs we'd probably laugh at now, but in those moments, they were our soundtrack. We were just kids then, learning about life and love one awkward slow dance at a time.
Sports remained our constant. Through championships and defeats, through his games and my cheerleading, we grew stronger. Our competitive spirits matched, our dreams aligned, and somewhere between the grass-stained uniforms and victory celebrations, we realized this was more than just young love.
Years passed, seasons changed, but our story kept writing itself. On a perfect spring evening, under the same sky that watched us grow up, he got down on one knee. The baseball cap was gone, replaced by a suit, but that smile – that same smile from the dugout – remained unchanged.
They say when you know, you know. But sometimes, you grow into knowing, like a fastball turning into a perfect arc, like rookie players becoming legends, like two kids becoming a team for life.
Some relationships start with a home run. Ours? We built it base by base, inning by inning, year by year. And in the game of love, that's the best way to play.