My son, Owen, and I were supposed to miss this game altogether. It was originally scheduled for back in April, for a day when we were in Ireland. But it rained that day, and the game was called off. So the second and final meeting between the Athletics and Pirates of the Mosholu Montefiore Community Center’s baseball league’s Bantam Division was instead set for Saturday, June 18 at Shandler Field in Van Cortlandt Park.

There was no rain this time. Intense sunshine baked the ballfield. The last time we’d been on the field, our Athletics had a 12-4 lead as the Yankees took their final at-bat only to see the Yanks score eight runs to eke out a tie. The week before there had been another cancelled game because of bad weather; that one would never be made up. This was to be our last game of the year.

The Athletics, coached by Sam Saltares, struck first, scoring twice. We came back with five runs. In the third, they took a 7-5 lead. Then we went ahead 10-7. They put four across in the next frame, but we scored one more in the bottom half to tie the game at 11. Our star player, Artie, was out of town. But we were getting enough offense off the bats of Deandre, our leadoff man, with Carlos, Romeo and Joel getting on base every time. Denae belted a rocket past the third baseman. David beat out a throw to first. Owen had two RBI singles despite having to lay down between at-bats with a headache and fever. Alyssa played heads-up right field, and Jeremy patrolled left. Nick and Quadir stole hits from the Bucs with clever fielding.

Yet we still came to our last at-bat of the season down 13-11. More hits came. The bases loaded up. The tying run came across. Then it was Richard’s turn.

Richard, who happens to be our neighbor, had never played baseball before the season. People who came to our games often heard his name as coaches shouted for him to pay attention, stop playing with dirt, or at least stand up in the outfield. Earlier in the season, he’d asked me to stop the team from chanting his name when he was at the plate because it made him nervous.

Having taken his place in the batter’s box, Richard made a couple of weak swings. Quickly, he was down to his last strike. The winning run was on third base.

The pitch came, and Richard swung, this time with purpose, with meaning. The ball popped off the bat rolling and bouncing toward the shortstop. The bench knew instantly, just by the peculiar way the ball was dribbling across the diamond, that it was all we needed. We roared. The runner on third scampered home. Richard, the fastest man on the team, sprinted to first. He beat the throw by two steps.

The field emptied as Richard stood on first not quite understanding why everyone was hitting him on the helmet. The coach and assistants, grown men all, leapt off their feet. Owen cried with joy. Our final record was 4-4-1, which is somehow way better than 3-5-1, but it didn’t matter that much. If we had finished 1-9, this win would still have felt like the championship.

When the team got their trophies—every team gets trophies—Richard said it was the first he’d ever received. He also got the game ball. The next night he yelled into our yard to ask when the next game is. It was hard to tell him that there’d be no more games until April.

There is plenty not to like about sports—taxpayer-funded stadiums built on top of poor people’s parks, spoiled millionaire athletes, absurd ticket prices, steroid cheats, jingoistic violence. And there’s a lot about sports that is not very profound; they’re an excuse to drink some beer and not think about more important, more depressing things. But sometimes sports are more than all of that. They are a ball dancing across a dusty field and an unlikely hero wondering why everyone is smiling at him.

Jarrett Murphy, a Norwood resident, is editor-in-chief of City Limits.