Still Running the Bases Somewhere in the Light

Lauren Nixon-Matney • May 4, 2025
Still Running the Bases Somewhere in the Light

The Drifters: There Goes My Baby

Ray Charles: America The Beautiful

Film: The Sandlot

Pixel art illustration of children sitting together watching a baseball movie

Still Running the Bases Somewhere in the Light


We must’ve watched The Sandlot a hundred times that summer. Maybe more.


The first time, though (the one I always go back to) it was me, Billy, Tommy, Bobby, and Trey, packed into the living room, somewhere between their house and ours. I want to say it was Margaret’s copy, a well-worn VHS with that kind of magic where the tracking lines just became part of the story.


We watched it on a soft afternoon that turned gold as it went on, the way only childhood days can.


James Earl Jones shows up near the end...that deep voice, that presence like something sacred. It felt a little different once I realized he was the same man from Field of Dreams. That was the movie that made me want to be a writer. I saw it before The Sandlot, and when he said, “People will come, Ray,” I believed it—not just about baseball, but about words. That stories could bring people together, could hold whole lives inside them. So when he appeared again in The Sandlot, it felt like a kind of full circle moment. Like he was somehow the guardian of baseball dreams.


We were all baseball kids. Not all just organized league kids, but real baseball kids scraped-up and sunburned, eating freeze pops and sharing gloves, playing until our parents called us in or the sky turned lavender.


My mom used to gather us up when we got bored, walking the neighborhood, calling out, “Hey, y’all wanna come play ball?” Somehow, it always worked.


Billy and Tommy were there from the beginning of my life. Margaret’s twins. Identical, so much so that most people couldn’t tell them apart.


But we could.


Tommy had this softness in his eyes, a gentle kindness. Billy had a spark the kind that made you smile just by being near him.


They were like brothers to me.


There were others too...Chris, David, Brian, Trey, and often more. I was the tag-along little girl, always on the edge of the huddle… and somehow never really on the outside.


So many of our memories live at the baseball field.


The low hum of summer, dust in our lungs, grass stains on our knees, time moving in long loops.


Back then, it felt like it would never end.

But of course, it did.


I can’t remember the first time I had a s’more.


But after The Sandlot, it felt like they were always part of summer! Sticky fingers, smoky firelight, marshmallows puffed just past perfect.


That scene didn’t teach us how to make one. It just reminded us how good it was to be a kid when everything simple felt sacred.


Billy had heart surgery when we were younger (holes in his heart).


I don’t exactly remember the year but I remember my mom, Bobby, and I going to Houston with them, staying with my aunt while Billy was in the children’s hospital.


It’s strange what sticks. The worry in the grownups’ voices. The way the hospital lobby smelled.

But mostly I remember Tommy sitting quiet beside me, like we both knew the world wasn’t always going to be kind, even if we didn’t have the words yet.


He was gentle like that.


Not soft in the way people mean when they’re trying to say someone was weak—no. Tommy had a quiet strength.


He was the kind of kid who’d notice if you were left out. The kind who wouldn’t make a big show of helping you—just… be there.


He was fourteen when he died.


It was the night before Mother’s Day. Margaret was about six months pregnant with her fourth child (a beautiful baby girl). Billy had gone to live in Hilltop with his dad by then, and Tommy was staying in town with Margaret and her new husband Bob.


That night, he was out walking with a friend when a drunk driver speeding, reckless, blind to the world—crashed into him.


Just didn’t see him.


And just like that, he was gone.


I remember the knock at the door like it happened this morning.

It was midnight.


My Dad answered the door. Mrs. Traylor stood on our porch frantic, breathless.

She had taught both my mom and dad in high school. A constant in our lives long before my brother or I ever sat in her classroom.


“Liz, you’ve got to get yourself together,” she said. “Margaret needs you. There’s been an accident. They think Billy’s dead.”


It felt like the world cracked in two.


We were all screaming, crying—panicked in that way where your body knows more than your mind. 


We’d already lost Travis to cancer. But this was different. This was sudden. Brutal. No time to brace.


And then came the truth, in the slow, cruel way it always does.


It wasn’t Billy.


It was Tommy.


It didn’t bring relief.


It didn’t ease the panic or soften the grief.


It wasn’t relief it was a different kind of devastation, no lighter, no easier to carry.


Because when you love them both...when they’re both yours...there’s no “better” version of the news.


It was devastating.


And none of us were ever the same.


Sometimes I think about those long afternoons at the park.


That 4th of July scene the fireworks, the boys playing under light and stars while Ray Charles sang felt like a memory even the first time I saw it.


We had nights like that too. Maybe not as perfect. Most often the fireworks were over Mirror Lake in Hilltop. But close enough to feel like magic.


The baseball field was just a part of our neighborhood; open space and the sound of baseballs cracking off bats.

Grass under our bare feet. Dirt under our fingernails. Moms gathered nearby, lawn chairs spread out, music pouring from the stereo of someone’s car.


Margaret...kind, fun, always a steady example of love.


Becky, bringing some kind of magic wherever she went. Homemade peanut butter fudge at Christmas, Mickey Mouse pancakes on sleepy mornings, wrapping paper made from comics.


She was like a real-life Pinterest board before Pinterest ever existed.


And the boys; Billy, Bobby, Trey, Chris, David, Brian.


And Tommy.


We were all out there, some version of The Sandlot crew, just living it.


And even though I was the little one, the tag-along, they made space for me.


Not because they had to—because they wanted to.


(Or at least, that’s what I like to believe.)


We didn’t know we were making memories we’d carry for the rest of our lives.


We just thought we were playing.


When I think of Tommy now, I don’t usually think of the accident.


I think mostly of him skipping rocks in Hilltop, at Lake Tonkawa—his eyes soft with that quiet kindness he always carried.


I think of him sitting next to me on the floor the first time we watched The Sandlot, the glow of the TV lighting up a room full of kids who didn’t yet know how fragile life could be.


“There goes my baby…”


Not just a love song.


A memory song.


A goodbye song.


It rises like a summer night breeze, full of everything we felt and everything we lost.

It’s what I hear when I remember the way time moved back then slow and sweet, until suddenly it wasn’t.


The Drifters had this way of making a song feel like a memory. Like something your mom might’ve slow-danced to as a teen, or something you’d hear playing faintly from the kitchen radio while she made dinner.


When “There Goes My Baby” plays now, it’s about all the days we didn’t know we were living in gold.


Tommy was one of the best parts of those days.

And he always will be.


Sometimes I wonder if people really understand what it means to grow up with a whole crew like that a tangle of boys and moms and park days and late-night movies.


We didn’t just know each other; we belonged to each other.


And when someone like Tommy is taken, it doesn’t end there.


You carry them.


Not just in grief, but in the way you remember, in the way you tell stories, in the way you show up for the people you love.


He’s still with me.


In every summer dusk that feels just a little too quiet.


In every memory that smells like sunscreen and hot Texas heat.


In the twins I see now and still do a double take.


In every time The Sandlot plays and I swear I can hear us laughing in the background.


It’s funny when you’re a kid, you think the people you grow up with are going to be there forever.


And in some ways… they are.


Tommy’s part of the field.


Part of the lake.


Part of the song that plays in my head when I remember some of the best days I ever had.

“There goes my baby…”


It’s not the end of the story.


Just the echo of a boy we loved, still running the bases somewhere in the light.


Sometimes, when The Sandlot comes on, I have to stop what I’m doing.


Just sit. Just watch.


It’s more than a movie to me it’s a time capsule.


A story stitched with all the little pieces of my own.


Billy and Tommy. Bobby and Trey. Chris, David, Brian. Becky and Margaret. My mom. All of us.

It plays, and suddenly I’m back on that old park field—music drifting from a car stereo (probably Foreigner), summer spilling over everything.


And for a little while, we’re all still there laughing, running, living like it would never end.

And yet it does.


There’s this strange, beautiful thing about time: Babe Ruth floats through The Sandlot like a ghost.  Stories about him... dreams of becoming like him. I used to think of him as a faraway legend, all black-and-white photos and myth. But years later, we ended up in Hot Springs, Arkansas, the same town where Babe Ruth once trained.


We lived there for about ten years. Two of our babies (Jaxon and Maggie) were born there. We used to take them to Majestic Park, this field where Babe Ruth himself once played. That’s where Bobby plays now, part of a group of grown-ups who just love the game and still get out there. Not professionals. Just people who understand that something magic happens when you step onto a baseball field. Because the game never really left us.


Maybe that’s how we hold on.


You see, the thing is...just like in that movie, just like in our lives, the boys don’t stay boys forever.


But the summer does.


That’s how stories live on... not necessarily in stadiums or statues, but in summer dust and backyard games, beautiful memories and quiet boys who never made it home.


We look up, and maybe we don’t always see the stars at first.


But they’re there, always returning to light the field for another game.


Pixel art illustration of baseball field majestic park at night in Hot Springs, Arkansas, with stadium lights glowing and a star-lit sky as a Jamie watches a Lauren and Jaxon move across the infield, symbolizing memory, legacy, and time in a Searching for Stars tale.

< Older Post

Newer Post >

RESUME THE RHYTHM:

DRIFT THROUGH A CONSTELLATION OF MEMORY

Searching For Stars

Last Kiss: Melodies That Break Us

By Lauren Nixon-Matney • July 5, 2026
Buddy Holly : Last Kiss Pearl Jam: Last Kiss Cover

Good, Strong Words That Mean Something: A Letter of Light Through Pixelated Waves (for Heidi Clements)

By Lauren Nixon-Matney • July 5, 2026
My favorite literary phrase of all time is spoken by Josephine March, written by Louisa May Alcott in Little Women. “I like good, strong words that mean something.” You, my dear, you say good, strong words that mean something. You put good, strong words that mean something into the world, and I thank you so very sincerely for that. You have made such an incredible impact on my life, and on my outlook on beauty and aging. ⸻ I stumbled across your incredible fashion sense on Instagram and was completely hooked on your vibe. I absolutely love fashion. I always have. I’ve definitely had my own kind of zany style over the years. So when I saw you, I was like, OK, yes, she is amazing. I love this energy. ⸻ The way you put things together, the confidence, the energy, it makes you wanna get up, go into your closet, and actually enjoy getting dressed again. And for a woman approaching 40, who’s had three children and has had many of her own struggles with who am I, what’s my fashion, what’s my energy, or what’s my style, You just felt so damn refreshing and inspiring. So I hung around, but what really hooked me wasn’t just the style, it was you, the essence of you. The way you talk, the honesty, the fact that you just say things straight, no fluff, no sugarcoating, no trying to be anything other than exactly who you are.. and somehow that makes everything you say sound even more profound. ⸻ The impact your message was having in my life became undeniable. It wasn’t just something I watched for enjoyment anymore, it was something I actually began feeling, and carrying with me. I grew up in a time where it felt like there was an expiration date on women. Like if you didn’t fit into a certain mold, or size, or type… your worth somehow became less. And then life happens. You grow up. You age. Maybe have kids. Your body changes. Your priorities change. Somewhere in the middle of all of that, you can kind of lose your sense of… who am I now? What’s my style? Who am I supposed to become? Am I too late for something? What even feels like me anymore? So for a while, I think I actually bought into that idea without even realizing it. The idiodic notion that maybe I had passed some invisible point where things were supposed to quiet down. Tone down. Fit into something more “acceptable.” Or the grand illusion that I was out of time to follow my passions! But watching you… that narrative just started to fall apart. The way you show up, the way you speak, the way you move through the world so fully as yourself… it made me realize that aging isn’t something to fear or shrink from. If anything, it’s where things start to get really good. It’s where you get bolder. More comfortable. More you. More beautiful. ⸻ What you’re doing matters so much. The way you show up, the way you speak, the way you fully own who you are, it doesn’t just stay on a screen. It carries through pixelated waves. It reaches people like me, in real life, in real moments, and shifts something quietly but powerfully within us. So I just wanted to say thank you. For your honesty, your energy, your style, your voice… all of it. You have inspired me, Searching for Stars, and undoubtedly countless women all over the world more than words can truly translate. Thank you, for being you!

Getting Your Pink Back: Answered Prayers, Quiet Signs, Bluebirds and a Business Professional Poodle (A Letter of Light for Lindsey Gurk)

By Lauren Nixon-Matney • May 6, 2026
Okay, so I asked God for a sign this week… and I didn’t make it easy on Him. I had just seen this video about asking for a sign, about how God answers, about how He delights in it… and something in me just… recognized that. Like, oh. I’ve felt that before. Lindsey, it was your video. And the second I heard it, I remembered something. I remembered a time, years ago, back in that early, foggy, pinkless season of motherhood, when I had asked for a sign too. I had prayed, really specifically… really honestly… “God, just show me I’m okay. Show me I’m on the right path.” And I asked for a blue butterfly. I didn’t see it right away. I waited. I wondered if I had imagined the whole idea in the first place. And then, not long after, life moved us somewhere new. A new place, new energy… the kind of move that feels exciting and terrifying all at once. They handed us the keys… and right there on them… was a blue butterfly. And I remember feeling that same quiet recognition. Like… okay. And then, a couple months after that, with prayers inside us building for a second child, we went to a park. One of those ordinary days that turns into something you don’t forget. And there were butterflies everywhere. Hundreds of them. Yellow, filling the air, lifting all at once like something out of a dream. And right in the middle of it… one blue butterfly. I just stood there, overwhelmed, because I knew. I knew I had been heard. Nearly one year to the day later, our second child was born. And then… life kept moving. Time passed. Things got busy. Full. Loud. Beautiful… but a little hazy, too. Somewhere along the way, I think I stopped asking like that. Fast forward. I’m sitting with my kids on New Year’s Eve, going into 2025, talking about goals and dreams. The kind of things you say out loud but don’t always fully claim. “I’ve always wanted to write.” And my daughter, so sure, so certain, just looked at me and said, “Then make it your New Year’s resolution.” And something about the way she said it… she didn’t question it. she didn’t overthink it. She just… believed it was possible. So I did. I started building something I’ve carried in pieces since I was in high school. Old notebooks, scattered thoughts, songs, memories… things I’ve never really known how to explain out loud. And for the first time, it felt like someone actually got it. So I got to work. Writing with a baby asleep on my chest… voice notes, typed drafts, music playing in the background… piecing together old memories with new ones. And I love it. I really do. But if I’m being honest… I started to wonder. Is this meaningful? Is this worth the time? Is this something good… or just something I want? And more than anything… I wanted to know if it was something God saw as good. Not just something that looked meaningful… but something that was. So I sat down, quietly, and I prayed. And I said, “God, if this is something I’m supposed to keep building… if I’m on the right path… if this is your will for me… please just show me. Give me a sign.” And I paused… because I knew I couldn’t ask for something easy. I had asked for butterflies before and blue jays have been unusually common in our backyard lately. I needed something specific. Something I wouldn’t just brush off. I looked over… and saw this little pink and white poodle sitting on my daughter’s shelf. And I laughed a little and said, “Okay God… show me a poodle.” almost sarcastically thinking… well, this one’s going to take a little more effort. But of course… Not even 48 hours later, we ran into Burlington. We were just there to grab socks and shoes for my toddler, her sandals were bothering her. Quick in, quick out. We ended up wandering a little. We’re headed to checkout… and my husband steps down an aisle, picks something up, and goes, “Okay, I know this is ridiculous… but we need this for the office.” And he had no idea. Nothing about my prayer. Nothing about the poodle. I’m barely paying attention yet. And then he turns it around. It’s a painting. Of a poodle. Not just a poodle… a poodle in a full business suit… sitting at a desk… reading a newspaper. I just… stopped. A business professional poodle, for the office we’re building together, a space where I can write. Like everything in me went quiet for a second. Because of all the things in the world I could have asked for… of all the ways that prayer could have been answered… it was that. I remember thinking, smiling, fighting back tears of joy… of course it is. Because I had asked for something specific. And apparently… He has a sense of humor. Also, just to make sure I didn’t miss it… because let’s be real, God definitely knows how to show out… the very next place we went… was Petco. And there was this real poodle. Then again. And again. Every aisle I turned… I kept running into it. And that feeling came back. The same one from before. Quiet. Certain. seen. beloved. Lindsey… Thank you so much, you reminded me to ask. You reminded me that God doesn’t just hear us… He answers. Not always in big, overwhelming ways… but in ways we’ll recognize. In ways that feel personal. Specific. Sometimes even funny… like they were meant just for us. And Lindsey… I just want you to know how much I appreciate all of what you’re doing. Your energy, your humor, the way you show up so fully as yourself… it matters more than you probably realize. You make people laugh, you make motherhood feel seen, and you bring light into spaces that can feel heavy sometimes. But there is also so much more than that… God really radiates through you. In the way you speak, in the way you encourage, in the way you remind people to keep going and to keep believing. It’s powerful. And it’s beautiful to witness. What you’ve created with “get your pink back”… that message, that reminder… it’s reaching people. It’s lifting people. It’s giving something back to women who feel like they’ve poured everything out. And that matters. It really does. I’m so grateful I came across your video when I did. And I’m really looking forward to everything you create next… especially your writing. You’re doing something good here. Keep going. Please never stop casting your light into the world… it really does break through the darkness.
Show More