Thanks to the team picture on the Internet, I knew the team had red uniforms, so I knew they were in the outfield right then. I zeroed in on their dug-out and focused on two coaches with red shirts on. And then my heart stopped. I recognized his stance, his mannerisms right away. There was Ryan standing in the dug-out doorway, shouting encouragement to his team. I remembered the voice, the Yankee accent. I stood there gazing at him, not quite believing he was there in front of me.
I stood behind the bleachers and chairs of the team’s fans and tried to pick out Karen—Ryan’s wife. All I saw were the backs of people’s heads, so it wouldn’t be easy. Just then I noticed that Ryan’s son—number seventeen—was coming up to bat, and then I heard a voice yell, “Come on son, focus!” The woman who shouted it looked a bit nervous, with her hands clasped and leaning forward in her folding chair. She had long, dark hair, which I knew Karen used to have. A little girl of about eight sat beside her, coloring. Ryan’s daughter. How in the world was I going to talk to Ryan with his family so close by? I started thinking perhaps I’d just leave the note, hand it to one of the other coaches and ask him to give it to Ryan, as I hightailed it out of there. But I stayed.
Ryan’s team got a big lead, and the game was drawing to a close. In the top of the ninth inning, I pulled out the note I’d written in case I got cold feet, read it over, and added a few lines to it. I was feeling very nervous and was feeling like I might opt for Plan B. My Plan A was to approach Ryan immediately after the game as the team was leaving and hope that his wife and kids would be involved in their own conversations and wouldn’t notice us. It would have to be very strategic and very quick. Then I noticed the sky was darkening. I hadn’t planned on the threat of rain. If it rained, everyone would be running for their cars and there would be no time to talk to Ryan. “
