An hour before the game, Dansby Swanson left the locker room after receiving a call from his aunt—his grandmother, who had raised him since he was a child, had just died from a stroke. She passed away without hearing her grandchild say goodnight.
“I promised her I would call her last night,” Swanson said, his eyes red after the game.
“But I was late swinging… and I got home late, and I thought she wouldn’t be mad. But she was gone before I could say I love you.”
Coach Craig Counsell and his teammates all offered Shaw a break. But he quietly refused.
“I need to be out there. If I stop, I’ll fall apart. But if I hit, if I run… I know she’ll be looking down on me.”
In his first at-bat, Shaw didn’t score. But as he ran to first base, he paused for a few seconds, looked up at the stands—not to see anyone, but as if to say, “Grandma, I’m here. And I’m still going to fight.”
After the game, Dansby Swanson reached into his pocket and pulled out a red-and-white wool bracelet.
“Grandma knitted this when I was 7. She told me, ‘When you’re scared, grab this.’”
Over the years, the bracelet faded. But Shaw still carried it with him at every game—a little habit that no one noticed.
Then he pulled out another folded piece of paper—a handwritten letter he had intended to send, but had never had the courage to finish:
“Grandma, I missed three hits today, but I tried like you told me. If you’re still listening… I just want to say… I love you very much.”
The Cubs didn’t win that game. Dansby Swanson didn’t hit a home run. But when he ran into the dugout in the bottom of the ninth inning, the crowd at Wrigley Field rose to applaud.
No one said anything. They knew – today, a young player was not only playing football, but also saying goodbye to the person he loved most in his life.