For once, this one isn’t from me. It’s from the other half of 9inningnomad, Amy, A.K.A. Momma Nomad. That’s what I call her. She can give something I cannot: a woman’s perspective.
-crod
I’ve spent a lot of weekends at baseball fields. Through 9inningnomad, we’ve chased the stories that often go untold: indyball, international leagues, and the players still chasing a dream without the spotlight or resources that others take for granted. Along the way, we’ve been drawn to women’s baseball and softball, not because they’re niche, but because the athletes and their stories have deserved far more attention than they’ve ever received.
I’ve loved being part of those journeys, but until now I’d never felt compelled to write about one of those stories myself. Then we drove to Springfield, Illinois, for the inaugural weekend of the Women’s Professional Baseball League (WPBL). I expected to watch history. I didn’t expect history to feel so personal.
As someone who grew up in the 1980s and early ‘90s, I never dreamed about playing baseball. It wasn’t because I didn’t want to. It was because, growing up, baseball was considered a boys’ sport.
Girls played softball. Boys played baseball.
That’s how youth sports were organized. That’s what we saw. That’s what we were told. I loved softball. Some of my favorite childhood memories happened on a softball field. But it wasn’t something I chose over baseball. It simply wasn’t an option for girls.
But softball and baseball are different games. For generations, girls weren’t told, “Choose whichever you want.” The choice had already been made for us.
As I watched the games unfold that weekend, I realized I wasn’t just watching a new league begin. I was watching history correct something that should have been different all along. Before the first pitch was even thrown, I felt the emotion start to build.
Seeing the players take the field in professional uniforms was powerful. Watching Maybelle Blair, a link to the last era of women’s professional baseball, throw out the ceremonial first pitch made the moment feel even bigger. It felt like the past and the future of women’s baseball were sharing the same field.
Rakyung Kim was the game’s starting pitcher. Her first pitch was thrown, gameplay was immediately paused, and that ball was taken off the field for authentication before making its way to Cooperstown. Everyone seemed to understand what was happening. This wasn’t just another game; it was history.
These weren’t women playing in an exhibition or a novelty event. They were professional baseball players. Throwing overhand from a mound and turning double plays. Working counts. Reading pitches. Playing the same game I grew up watching on television but was never allowed to truly play myself.
For the first time in more than seventy years, women have a professional baseball league of their own. As a baseball fan, that’s significant. As a woman, it feels historic.
Watching these athletes, I kept thinking about the little girls in the crowd. They’ll grow up seeing something different than I did. Some will still choose softball, and that’s wonderful. Others will choose baseball because now they’ll know it’s an option. That simple difference, having a choice, is everything.
I also found myself thinking about the women on the field. Many of them spent years pursuing baseball without a clear professional pathway. They played because they loved the game, not because there was a league waiting for them. Now there is. The WPBL isn’t just creating opportunities for today’s players. It’s creating visibility. It’s giving young girls something my generation never had: someone to point to and say, “I want to do that.”
Representation can feel like an overused word until you realize how powerful it is to finally see yourself reflected in something you love. I kept thinking the emotion would settle down. It never did. I cried watching the players take the field. I cried when the first-pitch ball was sent on its way to Cooperstown. I cried after the final out. I cried during the fireworks that closed out the weekend.
Every time I thought I had pulled myself together, something else reminded me what I was witnessing. The WPBL can’t give my generation the choice we never had. It can’t rewrite the years when baseball and softball were separated into two different worlds: one for boys and one for girls. But it can make sure the next generation grows up seeing something different.
I don’t know what this league will look like five years from now. Like every new professional league, it will face challenges. It will have to earn fans, find footing, and prove it can last. I hope it does.
Because somewhere in those stands on opening weekend, a little girl watched women play professional baseball. She saw a game she loves being played at the highest level by women who came before her. She saw possibility. Those tears weren’t about wishing my childhood had been different. They were about knowing someone else’s will be. And I can’t think of a better baseball story to tell.
Don’t expect a new column. This one just needed to be hers. -crod
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With all the anti- women crap out there, it’s wonderful to have the WPBL emerge. Let’s go!
Thank you for this! ❤️