I take off my Nike All Stars cleats, clap them together to rattle off the dirt caked on over the season, another season in the books. I was 16 that day, and at the time I didn’t know that day would be the last time I’d be doing that same old routine. Summer days called for fresh cut grass, they called for the sun beating down on my back while I focused on the batter, they called for long double headers with my teammates going far into the night. The summer nights called for baseball.

I had always played baseball, it was in my blood and was something I loved doing. I remembered the countless hours on the diamond getting better at whatever I could, I was hungry. From the days of tee ball, to the high octane game that is high school baseball; my career spanned nearly all my life. I had a bounty of good memories, whether it be the teammates, the games that I’ll never forget, or the time spent, I had plenty of memories that I would never forget. Seasons blended into one another, the faces rotated but baseball was always a constant.

Something changed.

Last year the walls came crashing down, the games weren’t fun, I was cheated, baseball and all of its romanticism vanished. I was looked over and pushed aside, not given a chance to even play the game I loved so dearly. Instead of me playing with my teammates and friends which I had played with for years, the coach called up a freshman to play in spot. It didn’t make sense to me, or to anyone else. My cleats, Nokona glove, my Easton S2 bat, my uniform, my helmet, none of them were used. That coach, he ruined baseball for me. I spent countless hours sitting on the bench watching my favorite memories of seasons past become corrupted with the pain of not having the chance to relive them. The season drudged on and I hoped for the end, which wouldn’t come soon enough. The kid played in my spot, he took my memories, had my fun, had my season, and took baseball from me.

I go back to my days playing on the Warriors, and I always have fond memories of those days. Everyone on that team was best friends, we were inseparable. From getting to know them in the winter practices at Maine South, to rooming with them in the Wisconsin Dells, those were my favorite years. Everything was in perfect harmony. We won games and had fun doing it. We really became a team back in 2008 in the Geneva Memorial Day Tournament; we rallied back from large deficits in all three games to advance to the championship to win it. We hooped and hollered as the trophies were handed to us, we were champions.

Winning became different.

Sophomore year we went 33-2. It was the best season in history of Maine South, but I hated every moment of it. Not being a part of the team killed me; winning showed me that my team didn’t need me. It showed me that I was expendable. We kept on winning and the coach had no reason to change things in the dugout. Baseball was always a team sport, I knew that, and I should’ve known that I really was helping my team, albeit unconventional ways. My anger at the situation turned me into something I never wanted to become.

The memories are hard to look back at, last year was by a large margin the worst year for baseball for me. I always prided myself on being an excellent teammate and friend to everyone on the team, but with the freshman who replaced me things were different. I hated him. I hated him for no reason other than him just playing out in the field. His opportunity and enjoyment of the game I cared so dearly for became the source of my jealousy.

Here I am now. One year later I am still bitter about that year. I was going into the 2013 baseball season unsure about my intents and whether I wanted to play baseball. I struggled with this decision for months. There were times where I’d pick up my Nokona baseball glove, my favorite glove I had ever had, and I would just stare into it looking for answers that weren’t there. I knew that this year would be another year sitting on the bench and keeping stat sheets, and that was something I didn’t want to do. I had played baseball all my life, from tee ball on the Giants to now with Maine South. My parents went to every game and supported me through every moment, good or bad. I thought about it for a long time. Would I play this year? If so, then what would I really be playing for, my parents’ want for me to play?

In the middle of looking for the answers I craved so bad, I would go back to when I was 13 and on the Illinois Indians 13u team, it was my first experience without my Warriors team I grew so fond of. That season was one of highs and lows, and one of those highs was when we traveled to the Wisconsin Dells for a baseball tournament. We were shorthanded; we only had 10 players to fill 9 spots, so everyone played all the time. That weekend, despite all of the odds, we advanced to the semifinals ahead of some fairly large teams. We entered that game worn out and beaten down; I had pitched 12 innings in 3 days, which is well above the recommended 6 innings maximum. Even though we lost, I learned what baseball was really about. It was about coming together when the going gets tough and grinding out, and looking at your teammate and knowing you have each other’s backs. How could I walk away from that?

It ended.

I sit here writing about my choice to not play baseball in 2013, and with my head held high, I can say that I made the right choice. I realized that the memories I have lived over the countless seasons will forever be there for me to look back on. My parents supported my decision to walk away on my own terms, not what some other coach wanted. My decision to put baseball behind me was not easy; it was just a decision that had to be made. Memories fill our lives, but it is the memories we try to keep alive that become corrupted into something you never loved. It is best to let go before you hate what you loved.