The weather has gone from wet and chilly to pleasant and sunny (or brutally hot, depending on where you live). Senior night festivities have come and gone.

Conference tournaments have started and in many cases finished. State tournaments are looming.

Yes, it’s that bittersweet time of the year, because it doesn’t just mean the end of the high school softball season. It means the end of high school softball for some players period, and for all too many the end of their softball careers.

You remember how it all started, maybe with a flyer from the school announcing rec league tee ball or coach pitch softball. Your daughter brought it home and said, “Can I?” and you said, “Sure, why not?” After all, it’s just a few weeks April through June, and not much of a time commitment even then.

Hah! Little did you know.

Then came the first travel team, with tournaments on a few weekends turning into tournaments practically every weekend. Trips within a 25-mile radius that were drive in and drive out turned into trips out of state, maybe even across the country, with hotel stays and the other accompanying expenses.

Soon it was consuming much of your time and disposable resources, but you didn’t mind. It was fun to watch your daughter do what she loves.

Yes, there were some bumps along the way. Maybe it was a batting slump. Or a stretch where it seemed like she made more errors than plays, or couldn’t find a radioactive plate with a Geiger counter if she was pitching.

It may have even been a coach who thought yelling and screaming = motivation. Or a group of girls with which your daughter just wasn’t a good fit.

But all of that was minor compared to all the great times you spent watching your daughter play the sport she loves – and all the car rides to and from the field where you not only talked about softball (hopefully in a positive, “wasn’t that fun?” way) but also got to know her better as a person because the two of you were trapped together for hours on end. She shared her hopes, dreams, frustrations, feelings and more in a way she probably wouldn’t have at home.

Now, however, those days are pretty much behind you. You will watch your daughter put on her uniform, lace up her cleats, grab her bat bag, and head out to the field like she has so many times before.

But instead of thinking ahead to where you have to be next weekend, this will be it – your last chance to watch her play in a competitive situation, where every pitch feels like life and death and every triumph is magnified 10-fold.

Sure, as you tried to balance the responsibilities of life with the pleasure of watching your daughter play it all seemed like it was just one mad rush from one event to the next. But soon there will be no need to rush, because you have nowhere special to be today. Next Saturday morning you can sleep in.

Then all that gear will be gathering dust in a closet the way your vehicle used to gather diamond dirt in every crevice. Maybe she’ll grab her glove and bat and play now and then with her friends in a slow pitch league.

But it won’t be the same.

So before it’s all over, remember to take in the aroma of that fresh-cut grass and the sensation of the warm sun on your skin as you wait for the game to begin. Appreciate the feeling of dust blowing onto arms and a face lightly coated with sweat, coating you with grime that never quite seems to wash off, and the sound of cleats crunching on the infield dirt or clattering on the concrete dugout floor.

Not to mention the challenge of washing deep ground dirt out of bright white pants because some idiot coach thought white pants look good. (Guilty!)

Savor every last bit of it. Because when it’s over it’s over.

And when the last out as been recorded, take a moment before you pack up the camp chairs and the snacks and the blankets and everything else you’ve carried from field to field these many years. Burn it into your mind.

Years from now you’ll remember these as some of the best years of your life. Because they were.

Good luck to all the graduates – and their families!

Top photo credit; Michelle Josko