Took all season to land this—
     a flawless run
     from Texas to L.A.,
     Atlanta to St. Louis—

     no blown saves,
     no ninth-inning nightmares,
     just one “almost”.

Texas made it tense,
      dancing on the edge of blowing it—

      holding our breath just a bit too long.

You noticed first.
Of course you did.

You, who calls them "my teams"
     but secretly checks the Dodgers scores

     while pretending you don’t.

It was 8-0 when you messaged.
Then 11-0—
     locked up tight,
     game comfortably in the bag.

But the top of the ninth—
    Giants rallied five runs,
    threat looming, hearts racing,

    victory briefly flirted with disaster.

Yet somehow, the Dodgers held.
    Like they knew what this meant,

    like they’d been waiting all season for us to exhale.

So I scroll.
I breathe.
I smile.

Thumb hovering over your name—

Four wins.
Four quiet miracles.

Nothing flashy,
    no champagne showers,
    just quiet confirmation—

    a silent cheer passed across WhatsApp screens.

Songs trading places,
      voice notes tucked gently into busy schedules,

      playlists aligning exactly where they’re needed.

Me, in your city,
    Coal sprawled out beside me,
    half-watching,
    half-sleeping,

    unaware of the moment we’re quietly sharing.

You, away in Charlotte,
     missing this Buckhead night,
     but somehow perfectly present—

     bridging distance with your texts, your voice,
     the grin I can hear before you send it.

We found that elusive 4-0,
   but really,
   it was always about more than baseball,
   always about the moments between the innings,

   the silent sync of us, even separated.

And tonight—
    you’ll be back.
    Coal will perk up, tail wagging.
    I’ll stand, waiting—

    for that perfect hug,
    that overdue kiss,
    the week-long stretch
    we’ve waited for, earned, and finally get to claim.

Four-Oh, finally.

Not just the teams— (*our* teams)

Us, too.