It was the DCSAA championship game—the third one I had played in. After losing the previous two, I dreaded the idea of losing again. We were down three runs in the sixth inning. At the climax of the season, I prayed I wouldn’t get out. I hit a ground ball to the shortstop and sprinted to first. I leapt with my left leg, and as my right leg swung forward, I heard a pop. I flipped beyond the bag. It was close, but the umpire called me safe—maybe out of sympathy.
At that moment, I lost hope—in myself and in the team. In a critical time, all I could think about was my leg. Shocked and angry, I slumped into the dugout, consumed by self-pity. But somehow, we scratched out three runs that inning and tied the game. Hope returned.
In the bottom of the last inning, we were still behind. A couple of players got on base. It was supposed to be my turn again. I ripped off the ice, stood up, and my knee buckled. I couldn’t make it to the batter’s box. Being replaced at that moment hurt.
A few good at-bats later, Etan Rosario hit a ground ball up the middle to drive in the winning run. We had just won the second state championship in school history.
It felt bittersweet. I was proud of the win, but I knew my summer—arguably the most important one of my life for college baseball—was gone. I felt ashamed that I let the injury cloud such a joyful moment. Looking back now, I realize that the injury was temporary, but the memory of that win is permanent. What made it even more special was that every single player contributed. It was the definition of a team win.
After reconstructive surgery in mid-June, my life suddenly came to a halt. My calendar, once packed with tournaments and showcases, was blank. I sat idle, unable to relax, knowing I was falling behind in the baseball world. I had great support and distractions, but it felt surreal to sleep through such an important summer. Movies became my escape—watching and writing about them gave me a small sense of direction.
Then my sister came home from college. Everything shifted. With her came a new intensity. Our family conversations turned to politics, justice, and the role we play in the world. She challenged my parents to think more about their responsibility—not just as individuals, but as global citizens. We couldn’t hide behind the excuse that life was already too busy.
She was a catalyst, a wake-up call. I was pushed out of my comfort zone and into deeper questions about the world and my place in it. Together, we attended protests, held vigils, joined calls with advocacy groups, and posted signs across the city. Those moments became the highlights of my summer. I became part of something so much bigger than myself.
It was uplifting, and I needed that feeling more than ever. There was camaraderie, cohesion, and a collective sense of purpose. The cause was peace, but the feeling went deeper. It was the idea that even in a fractured world, people can unite for something just. That realization gave me clarity: in the long run, I’ll be grateful I was on the right side of history.
Without my sister, I may never have gotten off the couch. The absence of baseball meant I had no distractions, no excuses. I’m not saying I did enough—I didn’t. But I’ve come to understand that the point isn’t to finish the work; it’s to show up. To participate. To contribute however we can.
I get the irony: I’m writing about selflessness and can’t stop talking about myself. But I wish I hadn’t needed to tear three ligaments to realize that our primary responsibility as people is to show up for each other.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that life, like sports, is a team endeavor. Whether we’re recovering from an injury or navigating a transition, we owe it to each other to be a support system.
As tensions grow both at home and abroad, empathy becomes more crucial than ever.
The bystander effect—the idea that someone else will handle it—isn’t enough anymore. This is a team sport. It demands participation.
Since May, everything has changed. The process has been overwhelming, painful, and transformative. But in hindsight, I wouldn’t change much. As Steinbeck put it, it’s been an “aching kind of growing.”
Difficult? Yes.
Necessary? Absolutely •