“Say ‘softball!’” Coach Richmond shouts through a clenched grin.

For a moment, everyone pauses in their commentary, leaning into each other to flash their pearly whites for the camera.

“Softball!” half of us yell. The other half are still snickering about the last joke said.

“Geez, it’s easier to catch a home run over the fence than it is to get you all lined up for a picture,” Coach states, wiping away the sweat from his forehead with the back of his arm.

No one is listening, per the usual, scribbling addresses and phone numbers onto the backs of paper scraps torn from old batting lineups.

“Attention!” Coach calls, and this time, everyone looks up for a split moment. “If you bought pictures, you’ll get them at your house in about a week or so. If you don’t, just find me or the boss.”

It’s the same speech every year, so we glance at each other and shrug, fingers lifted to our lips in mock warnings to be quiet.

“Gather round, ladies,” Coach says, once more scrubbing the sweat from his brow. “It’s been a good season. Like always, we’ve won some and we’ve lost some, but you know, that’s how it’s gonna be in life.”

He glances around as if surprised to find we’re paying attention.

“We played a good game, and though we walked a couple batters along the way, we made our share of home runs.”

We all shout and turn to pat Reese on the back, who blushes despite her grin.

“Best of all, we made some friends. From our newest players…” This time it is Sadie’s turn to stare at the ground. “To our graduating seniors.” Karen bites her lip, closing her eyes tightly.

Coach breaks off. “Softball on three,” he finally voices, as if knowing no words truly could prepare us for goodbye.

Excited as always, we throw our hands into the center of our team huddle. “One… two… three… Softball!” We cheer and dart away, arm in arm with teammates and friends.

“Don’t forget to sign up for pictures!” Coach calls one last time. But we’re gone.

~ ~ ~

Seventy years later, someone unearths an ancient photo from a box in a musty attic. Though the photo itself is vintage and warped, smiling faces and stark blue uniforms still shine. Half the people are dead and buried now, and if the other half met each other on the street, they wouldn’t even recognize each other.

However, the photo still encapsulates the memory of dirt and grass, the sound of a ball hitting a glove, and the bond of friendship born through sunshine days.