For as long as I can remember, I have played baseball, and for the same amount of time, my grandfather watched me play. He would drive two hours just to come and take pictures of my games.

In 2002, he started showing signs of a stroke, and later that year, he was hospitalized. He held on for as long as he could but that November, he passed away. When he died, he left me a treasured gift: his silver pocket watch. Even though it was old and didn’t work, I loved it because it was his.

The following year, I turned 12 and played in my last season of Little League. Because my grandfather had been there for us the previous season before his stroke, the team dedicated this season to him. At the beginning of each game, we would put his silver watch in the middle of the huddle and say his name in a cheer. This became our pre-game ritual.

Undefeated, our team headed to the playoffs, and then to the championship against our archrivals, Littleton. It was a best of three games series, and we won the first but lost the second. We were back on our home field for the final showdown and made sure to perform our pre-game ceremony with the pocket watch.

It was the last inning and our team was ahead. Littleton was batting and had their last chance to come back, having runners on first and second with two outs. They were unsuccessful, and we won the championship.

As we headed back to the dugout we looked down at the watch. It was ticking.