pitch me the ball.

I carry three sets of people in my heart who are already waiting for me in heaven: my blood family, my gang family, and my recovery family. Each group holds pieces of my story—pieces that made me who I am.
When I imagine the moment I finally see them again, it isn’t a quiet walk through pearly gates. It feels more like baseball under the lights. It’s the ninth inning, two outs, the crowd holding its breath. Then—crack—the bat connects, and the ball soars. I’m rounding third after a walk-off home run, the way Kirk Gibson limped and pumped his fist or the way Freddie Freeman grins when he knows the game is over. The stadium erupts. Joy hits you so hard it almost knocks you over.
November of ’95 is burned into me. That was the first time I was shot and then run over by a car. I woke up sprawled behind my homie’s truck with Wicked gripping my hand. When my eyes opened, he slammed his fist on the window and screamed, “He’s alive! Big Mike’s alive! Drive faster!”
But before that moment, I was somewhere else. Somewhere beautiful.
I found myself back home on a dusty field, a bat in my hands. The sun was warm, the air smelled like cut grass, and laughter rolled across the diamond. My homies who’d already passed—Felipe, Derek, Danny, and all the rest—were there waiting. We gathered at the mound like old times, and someone looked at me and said, “What are you doing here?”
I begged them to pitch me the ball. “Come on, man, I’m here to play ball,” I pleaded. But they shook their heads. “Nah, Big Mike. You don’t belong here. Not yet. You’ve got to go back.”
Then came the light—blinding, endless light—until Wicked’s voice yanked me back to this world.
That moment convinced me: somewhere in heaven, there’s a baseball field. The bases are perfect, the bats never splinter, and the game never ends. And when my time finally comes, I’ll step back up to the plate with my people, ready to swing.
That’s heaven to me: not just reunion, but a rush of love so loud and undeniable you can feel it in your bones. It’s the celebration after the struggle, the moment you know you’re finally safe, finally home, and everyone who mattered is there to wrap you in their arms.


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