I’ve written quite a few of them now. About your sons, your roommates, your teammates. Maybe even about you.

I wrote about a high school shortstop named Khalil Greene, back before Peter Gammons knew his name and girls screamed it from the stands of Petco Park.

I wrote about a freshman quarterback named Ryan Fitzpatrick, back when he was a backup, before Mike Martz started comparing him to Marshall Faulk and Isaac Bruce.

I’ve been writing about sports for eight years now, and this will be the last story I ever write. And somehow, that’s okay.

* * *

The year my older brother won a state title, I was 14 years old, but I looked about 10, and I covered the game like I had every other that season. After the final out, as those kids in the red caps climbed on each other in a jubilant dog pile, all sweat and smiles, I walked down to the field, press credentials hanging from my neck, notebook clutched in both little hands.

For three years, I had wanted to be a part of a state title celebration, and now I was about to be standing on that grass, as close as I would ever get. But when I reached the gate, I was stopped by a tournament official in a white polo.

“I’m sorry. No fans are allowed on the field.”

I reached down to my neck and showed my credentials. “I’m press.”

He looked at me skeptically. “I don’t know how you got that, but no little girls are allowed on the field.”

I turned away, and walked slowly back up the stadium steps, broken. When I reached the first loge level, I glanced back onto the diamond and a figure caught my eye. It was my little brother, 11 years old, right in the middle of the tangle of red. No stadium official had stopped him. No stadium official noticed him. He was just a boy where he belonged.

As I turned and kept trudging up the steps, I clenched my teeth, and blinked my stinging eyes. It was the first time I had ever been jealous of my baby brother.

* * *

Now he’s all grown up, and I marvel at it every time I see him standing on that mound, tall and lean, clear eyes blazing under that flat-brimmed cap.

He pitched a no-hitter that day, by the way. In the state semifinals.