Epilogue
Taylor
Ten Years Later
I stand in the shadowed tunnel, listening to the growing roar of the crowd as the stadium fills.
The concrete walls vibrate with anticipation, or maybe that’s just the trembling in my legs.
I straighten my Cardinals cap, adjusting it with fingers that don’t quite feel like my own.
Beyond that rectangle of sunlight, forty thousand people are settling into their seats, waiting for a glimpse of history—waiting for me.
“You ready, Skip?” asks DeSanto, my bench coach, clapping me on the shoulder.
I jump, my breath catching, but I still manage, “Yep.”
The clubhouse behind me hums with pregame rituals—players taping wrists, adjusting caps, and pounding gloves.
There’s a heightened energy, everyone aware of the moment’s significance, but we’ve worked hard to make this feel like just another Opening Day.
That’s what I’ve emphasized in every interview, every team meeting—focus on the baseball, not the history.
I check my lineup card one more time even though I’ve memorized it hours ago. Nystrom leading off, Arango batting cleanup, that rookie with the wicked curveball starting on the mound. My decisions. My team. The reality of it still hasn’t fully landed.
We step into the tunnel leading to the dugout, the concrete giving way to the rubber matting that always reminds me of high school gymnasiums. The distant roar grows louder with each step, like we’re walking toward the ocean. My heart pounds a staccato rhythm against my ribs.
How many times have I imagined this moment?
Not just since the press conference announcing my hiring, but long before—sitting in the stands as a kid, watching the Cardinals with my dad during summer vacation; joining the Little League team; catching for Chase in our backyard.
Even back then, I was studying the game, analyzing strategies, imagining what I would do if I were in charge.
The tunnel opens into the dugout, and I blink, momentarily dazzled by the perfect green of the outfield grass, the pristine white chalk lines, the sea of red filling the stands. Busch Stadium. My home field now.
I step onto the field, and the sun blinds me for a moment. My cleats sink slightly into the grass—still damp from its morning watering—and the familiar sensation centers me. No matter how much changes, a baseball field always feels like home.
I join the players along the foul line as the announcer’s voice booms through the stadium.
“Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome your 2025 St. Louis Cardinals!”
The stadium buzzes with anticipation, and I scan the crowd, not looking for anyone specific yet—that will come later—but taking in the enormity of the moment.
“Batting first, playing center field, number eleven, Leo Nystrom!”
Nystrom waves his cap to the cheering crowd.
One by one, the starting lineup is announced, each player acknowledging the announcer in their own way.
I watch them carefully, noting who looks nervous, who’s soaking in the moment, who’s already locked in on the game ahead.
These observations will matter in a few minutes when the game truly begins.
“Batting ninth, at first base, number twenty-seven, Micah Wynn!”
As the last player is announced, my heart rate spikes. I know what’s coming next. I straighten my shoulders, tugging at the brim of my cap one last time.
“And now, ladies and gentlemen,” the announcer pauses dramatically, “making her debut as skipper of your St. Louis Cardinals—the first female manager in Major League Baseball—Taylor Coleman!”
The stadium erupts. It’s not just applause—it’s a seismic event, a wall of sound that hits me physically.
I step forward, raising my hand in acknowledgment, trying to keep my face composed even as emotion threatens to overwhelm me.
The roar continues, growing rather than diminishing, until someone starts a standing ovation that ripples through the crowd like a wave.
I finally let the tears prick my eyes. The first female manager in Major League Baseball.
Ten years ago, I was in a cramped office in Arlington, developing players for the Rangers.
Five years ago, I was coaching third base for their Triple-A affiliate.
Three years ago, I got the call to be the Cardinals’ bench coach—a homecoming to St. Louis that felt like destiny.
And six months ago, when Hiltz announced his retirement, the front office took a chance that still leaves me breathless when I think about it too hard.
I close my eyes and take a deep breath, the weight of all the women who never got this chance pressing down on my shoulders.
But this isn’t just about me or the women who came before me.
It’s about every girl—including Emma’s daughters—currently playing baseball instead of softball because she refuses to be told she can’t.
It’s about every woman who’s been told to lower her ambitions, to be satisfied with less.
It’s about progress that’s been far too slow in coming.
As the applause finally begins to fade, I allow myself to search the stands, looking for the one face I need to see more than any other. My gaze drifts to the first-base line . . .
And there he is.
My best friend.
My husband.
The love of my life.
Todd stands out in any crowd—six-foot-nine, broad-shouldered, his face more recognizable now after a decade in the NBA. But I’d find him anywhere, this man who’s been my constant through everything.
He’s on his feet, clapping with everyone else, but his eyes are locked on mine across the distance. He doesn’t wave or make a scene, and he doesn’t need to. The look on his face says everything—pride, love, and understanding of exactly what this moment means to me.
We’ve built our relationship in the margins—late-night phone calls, weekend visits, off-season stretches that feel like stolen time.
Two careers that demand everything—taking us to different cities and different states.
It shouldn’t work, but somehow it does—has for years now.
Because it never mattered what games we played—it only mattered that we played them together.