A powerhouse fly ball soared into right field toward the end of the last game of the season. I was one of the many exclaiming "WOW" as the opponent's ball soared up, up, and up. It was hit by a kid I remembered from an earlier game--he's three times as big as any of the other kids--always has looked like he's on the wrong team level. But a surprise to all the "Wow-ing" spectators: The sweet sound of the ball's smack into a mitt left our crowd cheering instead...it was caught by a Met!!!

And what to my surprise, when I peered around the beam blocking my view, when I looked out yonder to right field and saw the ball in Liam's mitt. And a huge grin across his face.

It was a familiar scene to sports fans at that point: team members rushing to their teammate, surrounding him in hugs and high-fives for a job well done--the catch meant a third out, which sent them running into the bleachers where the celebration continued.

A familiar scene indeed, all except that it was someone I knew all too well this time bearing the signature lucky mitt. The same little fellow who has been relentless all summer with "Mom, will you play catch with me?", "Dad, can we go to the field?", and the ritual Saturday morning question upon first waking: "How many minutes to my game?" Answered with, "5 hours, honey."

I learned later from the coaches that Liam had to really reach for it. They called it, "The play of the season." I had tears in my eyes watching him being the center of the team's affections on the bench. My friends all had goose bumps.

It could have been luck. It could have been practice. It could have been simply being the right person in the right place. But in that moment, on this day, it didn't matter: it was our guy's dream come true. And he walked away with the "game ball" still clenched in his mitt.