There’s a very familiar song that plays in the seventh inning stretch of baseball games. The song sings, “Take me out to the ball game, take me out with the crowd; buy me some peanuts and Cracker Jack, I don't care if I never get back. Let me root, root, root for the home team, if they don't win, it's a shame. For it's one, two, three strikes, you're out, at the old ball game.”

A scenario runs through my head as this song plays; what if we’re the home team I’m rooting for, but I’ve already used all of my three strikes? The way I look at it is, just like the game of baseball, you may have struck out but at your last at bat, there’s an opportunity for a home run at your next.

I’m still hoping in whatever inning my hit occurs, you’re my home run. I’m still rooting for team “us” to win at the end of the game.

I’ve had my fair share of strikeouts when it comes to you- I’ve struck out both swinging and looking. Yet every time I step up to that plate, I still get this urge to keep swinging the bat no matter how many times I’ve failed beforehand.

Many people say it is hard to get over your first love. They say you never forget the memories you shared but your first love may not always be your last love. The person you first kiss many not be your last kiss, but somewhere inside me I hope you’ll be my last. No matter how much time passes, that first time I see you there’s this feeling in my gut. Like even though I’ve messed things up so many times, I want to try again. I want to see if things will be different. And although, different may not be now, I wish they would be in the future.

I wish that God will cross our paths when we’re both ready for love. Maybe it’s at the bar and we catch each other’s eyes from across the crowded room or we happen to be shopping in the same aisle at the food store. Or life just seems to put us in the same place at the same time. I wish for that moment.

So when or if this moment happens, I’m going to hold on to that little bit of hope I still have. I’m hoping to be in that batters box, so determined as the pitcher throws a fast ball right up the middle, to hit it out of the park, circle the bases, and have you waiting there to celebrate with me as I come home. Because a part of you will always feel like home to me. You are the hit I’m not ready for in the fourth inning, but the home run I want in the bottom of the ninth.