My daughter is seven, and this is her second year playing softball. Instructional league. That beautiful, chaotic mix of learning and laughing, missed catches, tiny victories, and too-big helmets. She loves it. Lives and dies with every swing, every play. And I’ve found myself just… there.

Not loud. Not hovering. Just steady.
Watching—
just a bit back from the fence—
letting her grow into the game on her own.

I miss some games.
Not because I want to. Not because something else matters more. It’s work—just work. That’s the only thing that pulls me away.

But when I’m there, I’m hers.

She’s the loud one—cheering for herself, groaning at misses, celebrating every small win. And I’m the quiet one, sitting still, heart full.

This poem came out of that space between us. The space where love doesn’t need volume to be real. Where presence, even when imperfect, can still matter.

I hope one day, when she looks back,
she won’t measure how often I was gone—
only the times I was there.

---

The Times I Was Here

She takes the field
with nerves tucked beneath focus—
serious eyes,
light steps.
She’s growing into this.

I find my spot—
a little back from the fence,
quiet,
hands still,
watching.

She swings.
Misses.
Steps back.
Tries again.

Later—
contact.
Not much,
but enough.
She runs,
and when she reaches,
she cheers for herself—
bright and bold,
the way she always is.

The innings pass
like childhood—
fast,
then gone.

She listens.
Adjusts.
Takes in the rhythm
of effort,
and grace.

She shows everything—
frustration in her shoulders,
joy in her voice,
victory in the stomp of her cleats.

She’s loud.
Alive.
All heart.

And I’m there—
quiet,
still,
steady.

She doesn’t always look for me.
But she knows
when I’m there.

And I hope
what stays with her
isn’t what I missed—
but what I gave.

One day,
when the chalk lines fade,
and these fields are just memory,
I hope she remembers
the dust,
the swing,
the quiet—

and the times
I was there.