Part 9 – The Last Game of Summer
August bled into September, and with it came the final stretch of the Little League season. The Arkansas air grew heavier, the days shorter, the cicadas singing their long farewell. Gene McCallister sat at the kitchen table, turning a folded schedule over in his hands. The last game of the Hawks’ season loomed—a night match under the field lights.
“Last one, Grandpa,” Caleb said, coming in with his bat balanced across his shoulder. “We gotta win it.”
Gene smiled faintly. “Winning ain’t everything, son. But playing your heart out—that’s what lasts.”
Caleb grinned, but Gene caught the flicker of something else in his eyes. The boy had grown quieter since Champ’s death, but also sharper, more aware. He carried himself with a gravity far beyond his twelve years.
On the mantle, Champ’s collar and Caleb’s game ball lay side by side. Every morning, Caleb tapped them both before leaving for practice. Every night, he whispered goodnight to them.
The evening of the game came with a bruised sky, clouds hanging low. Gene drove them to the field in his old truck, the windows down, the warm wind rushing in. Caleb sat in silence, fingers drumming against his bat.
“You nervous?” Gene asked.
The boy shrugged. “A little.”
“That’s good,” Gene said. “Means you care.”
At the ballpark, the crowd gathered thick. Parents brought folding chairs, concession stands steamed with hot dogs and popcorn. The field lights buzzed overhead, washing the grass in harsh white glow.
Gene felt the ache in his knees as he climbed the bleachers, but he forced himself upright, proud. Caleb jogged off to join his team, glancing back once—searching. Gene lifted his cap in a small salute. The boy nodded, reassured.
Still, the empty space beside him where Champ had once lain gnawed at Gene’s heart.
The game began tense. The Hawks faced their rivals, the Springdale Wolves, a team known for their speed and sharp pitching. The first few innings were rough—strikeouts, fumbled catches, nerves thick in the air. Caleb came up to bat and struck out swinging, his jaw tight with frustration.
From the bleachers, Gene cupped his hands and called out: “Shake it off, son! You’ll get another pitch!”
Caleb glanced back, lips pressed, then returned to the dugout.
By the fourth inning, the Hawks trailed three runs. Parents muttered, nerves buzzed. Gene sat steady, though inside he battled his own ghosts. He remembered Mark’s last season, remembered standing in the same spot shouting encouragements. He remembered the car ride after that final game—the headlights, the rain, the call that had torn his world apart.
He pressed his hand against his shirt pocket, where the old photo of Mark and Champ rested. “Stay with me,” he whispered. “Both of you.”
In the fifth inning, Caleb returned to the plate. The pitcher wound up, throwing hard. Caleb swung—and missed. Strike one.
“Eye on it!” Gene shouted, voice carrying.
The second pitch came fast. Caleb fouled it back, the ball rattling against the fence.
Strike two.
The crowd murmured. Caleb stepped back, breathing hard, eyes darting. For a moment, Gene saw him falter. The boy glanced toward the bleachers, toward the spot where Champ had once sat, ears perked, ready to cry out.
Gene’s chest clenched. He rose to his feet, gripping the railing. “Swing true, Caleb!” he shouted, his voice cracking with both age and urgency. “Swing with your heart!”
The boy nodded faintly. He stepped back into the box, adjusting his grip.
The pitch came. Caleb swung—crack!
The ball soared high, arcing deep into left field. The crowd leapt to their feet, shouting, voices blending into one roar. Caleb ran, legs pumping, rounding first, then second. The outfielder sprinted back, glove outstretched—but the ball sailed just over his reach, bouncing against the fence.
Caleb tore into third, coach waving him home. He slid into the plate, dust flying, safe by a heartbeat.
The bleachers exploded. Parents clapped, kids screamed, teammates swarmed him.
Gene’s heart thundered. He clutched the photo in his pocket, whispering, “Did you see, Mark? Did you hear, Champ?”
And in the roar of the crowd, he swore he heard it—a faint echo, not from the stands but from somewhere deeper. A cry, raw and trembling, the sound of loyalty that had once cut through the night.
He pressed a trembling hand to his chest, tears burning.
The game turned. Fueled by Caleb’s run, the Hawks rallied. Hits cracked, bases filled, the score tightened. By the final inning, they led by one.
The Wolves’ last batter stepped up, tension thick. Two outs, bases loaded. The pitcher wound up, delivered. The crack of bat against ball split the air.
A line drive shot toward shortstop. Caleb dove, glove outstretched, body slamming into the dirt. For a second, it seemed impossible—but the ball stuck.
He popped up, threw to second. Out. Game over.
The crowd erupted. The Hawks leapt into the air, piling onto each other in joy. Coaches shouted, parents hugged, laughter shook the night.
And through it all, Gene stood frozen, watching Caleb at the center of it, grinning, covered in dirt, holding the ball high.
The same grin Mark had once worn.
The same cry Champ had once answered.
When the chaos settled, Caleb ran to the bleachers. “Grandpa! Did you see?”
Gene’s voice cracked. “I saw everything, son. Everything.”
Caleb beamed, sweat streaking his dirt-covered face. “That was for Dad. And for Champ.”
Gene’s knees wobbled. He lowered himself onto the bench, pulling the photo from his pocket. He showed it to the boy. “They were here tonight. I swear it.”
Caleb’s eyes filled. He pressed the photo to his chest, nodding fiercely. “I felt them.”
The two stood in silence, the field lights buzzing above, the diamond emptying around them. The night smelled of dust and cut grass, of endings and beginnings.
Back at the farmhouse, they placed the game ball beside Champ’s collar on the mantle. Caleb touched them both, whispering, “We did it.”
Gene stood behind him, resting a hand on his shoulder. “Yes, son. You did.”
Later, as they sat on the porch under the stars, Caleb turned to him. “Grandpa…do you think Champ cried at this game too?”
Gene looked at him, tears sliding unchecked down his cheeks. “I think he did. And I think your daddy was cheering right beside him.”
Caleb leaned against his grandfather, quiet, steady.
For the first time in years, Gene felt something loosen in his chest—not the weight of grief gone, but transformed. It was no longer a chain dragging him under. It was a thread, tying him to the past, carrying him forward.
And he knew then: the cheers that matter most don’t fade. They echo, carried by love, long after the field is empty.
Part 10 – Some Cheers Never Fade
The last game of summer passed into memory, but its echo stayed in the farmhouse like a hymn. The Hawks had finished their season in triumph, and Caleb Ryan McCallister carried himself differently now—shoulders squarer, eyes brighter, as though some weight had shifted from his heart.
But grief lingered too. Every morning, when he padded into the kitchen, his hand brushed Champ’s collar on the mantle. Every night, before bed, he whispered goodnight to the empty space where the dog once slept.
Gene McCallister watched it all with a mixture of sorrow and pride. The boy was learning what he himself had taken a lifetime to grasp—that love always outlives the body, and that memory is a kind of cheering that never quiets.
One cool September morning, Caleb appeared at the porch door, bat tucked under his arm, collar in hand.
“Grandpa?”
“Yeah, son.”
“Can we go to the oak tree? I want to…talk to him.”
Gene’s throat tightened. “Of course.”
They walked out together, dew soaking their shoes, the air sweet with honeysuckle. The oak stood tall, branches wide, shadow stretching long over the mound of earth where Champ lay.
Caleb knelt, brushing away a few fallen leaves. He set the collar gently on the ground, then placed the bat beside it. “You were the best teammate, boy,” he whispered. “I hope you and Dad are playing fetch right now.”
His voice cracked, but he kept going. “I hit one for you. And I’ll hit more. You’ll hear every one.”
Gene stood behind him, hat pressed to his chest. The boy’s words cut deep, stirring something he had buried for years. He lowered himself slowly onto the grass, knees aching, and placed a hand on the mound.
“I never told your daddy enough,” he whispered. “I thought I’d have more time.”
Caleb turned, eyes wide. Gene’s tears ran freely now. “I should have said it more. I was proud of him. Every swing, every step, even the mistakes. And I should have told him I loved him. I thought he knew. I thought…” His voice broke.
Caleb reached out, placing his small hand over his grandfather’s. “He knew, Grandpa. I bet Champ carried it to him.”
Gene let out a shuddering breath. The boy’s faith was a balm no sermon could match.
They sat there together, two generations bound by one dog’s memory, by one son’s legacy, by love too stubborn to die.
The days grew shorter, the nights cooler. The farmhouse settled into autumn rhythm—schoolbooks on the table, suppers eaten early, baseball bats leaning in corners like sleeping sentinels.
But the oak tree became their chapel. Every Sunday, Gene and Caleb walked there with fresh flowers or a game ball scuffed from practice. They sat in silence, sometimes talking to Champ as though he could still hear.
One Sunday, Gene brought his harmonica, the one Mark had loved as a boy. He played softly, the notes drifting through the pasture, mournful but sweet. Caleb leaned against him, eyes closed, as if listening for more than just music.
“I think he’s dancing to that up there,” Caleb whispered.
“Then we’ll keep playing,” Gene said.
As October rolled in, Gene found himself less haunted by the night of Mark’s death. The sharpness dulled, replaced by softer memories—laughter on dusty fields, muddy cleats on the porch, Champ chasing fly balls with boundless joy.
One evening, Caleb asked, “Grandpa, do you ever think about the day Champ cried at my game?”
Gene chuckled softly. “Every day.”
“Why do you think he did it?”
Gene stared out at the fading sunset. “Because he remembered. Because he loved. Because sometimes the heart can’t stay quiet, even in a dog.”
Caleb nodded, thoughtful. “Then I’ll cry like that too, when I remember.”
Gene’s eyes filled. He pulled the boy close. “And I’ll be proud when you do.”
By November, the air turned crisp. The oak shed its leaves, blanketing the ground around Champ’s grave in gold and brown. One afternoon, Gene and Caleb raked them away, piling them high.
When they finished, Caleb leaned on his rake, gazing at the mound. “You think people’ll remember me someday, Grandpa? Like we remember him?”
Gene looked at him—this boy carrying the weight of two lost souls and still standing. “Oh, they’ll remember. Because you’ve got their voices in you. Your daddy’s, Champ’s, and your own.”
Caleb smiled faintly. “Then I’ll make it count.”
Gene’s chest swelled with pride. The boy was finding his place, not in spite of loss, but because of it.
The first snow came in December, blanketing the fields in white. Gene and Caleb stood at the window, steaming mugs in hand, watching the world hush beneath the flakes.
“It looks peaceful,” Caleb said.
“Peace has a way of sneaking up when you least expect it,” Gene replied.
He thought of the long years of silence after Mark’s death, years when peace had seemed impossible. And he thought of how one old dog’s cry at a ballgame had broken the silence, reminding him that love, no matter how bruised, could still speak.
On Christmas morning, Caleb placed a small wrapped box in Gene’s lap. Inside was a frame, holding the photo of Mark and Champ, alongside a new photo of Caleb in his Hawks uniform. Beneath it, Caleb had written in careful letters: Some cheers never fade.
Gene’s vision blurred. He pulled the boy into his arms, hugging him fiercely. “That’s the truest thing I’ve ever seen.”
Caleb whispered into his shirt, “Then we’ll keep cheering. Forever.”
Years would pass. Caleb would grow taller, stronger, his swing sharp and sure. Gene would grow slower, his steps halting, his voice gravelly. But through every season, the oak tree stood, the collar on the mantle gleamed, and the memory of a dog’s cry at a baseball game lived on.
Because some cheers don’t come from the crowd.
They come from love, from memory, from the loyal souls who refuse to let us forget who we are.
And those cheers, Gene knew, echo longer than any roar of applause—into silence, into sorrow, into hope.
Long after the lights go out, they still linger.
Some cheers never fade.