As the lights dimmed and the stadium grew quiet, Javier Báez looked up at the sky as if conversing with an invisible friend. To the fans, it was just a nod — but to him, it was a constant promise: the son he lost would always be by his side, every time he stepped onto the field.
In front of the cameras and the lights, Báez was more than just a breakout star for the Chicago Cubs — he was a father with a deep pain that few saw. In recent months, he spoke publicly about a devastating loss for the first time: the death of his young son with his wife, Irmarie. Báez chose to remain silent. But then, baseball — the stage where he once performed lightning-fast swings and impossible catches — became the place where he found his breath. On the field, he doesn’t just run, he doesn’t just play – he misses.
“Every time I step onto the field, he’s still there with me,” Báez choked up at the press conference. “People see me smile, they see me play – but no one knows that before every ball, I say to him: ‘We’re together, my teammate.’”
To his teammates, the change in him was strangely obvious. “Javy was always on fire,” teammate Ian Happ said. “But now every step, every shot, it’s like he’s playing for something bigger… like he knows how fragile every moment is.” On Báez’s wristband are the letters of his son’s name. On his cleats – hidden under red dirt and chalk dust – is a simple message: “Mi hijo, mi fuerza” (my son, my strength).
When tragedy struck, Báez wanted to quit playing. “I didn’t want to play anymore,” he admitted. But Irmarie said one thing that changed him: “You’re playing for him. He loves you.” And on the field, every time Báez touched the ball, every time the crowd applauded — he heard another applause, smaller but resonant inside: from his son who followed him every step of the way.
Irmarie, his partner, couldn’t hide her sadness, but she didn’t stop at silence. She shared moments of vulnerability and resilience, hoping that if their story made at least one person feel less alone — then that was a way to keep that little boy alive, to still inspire.
“We talk about him every day,” Báez said of his other two sons — Aiden and Adrian. “He’s still at dinner, at bedtime, at games. Always with us. Always a part of us.” And on the field, Báez bowed before each game — not out of superstition, but out of connection. “Dad said, ‘Let’s go buddy, game on,’” and he smiled through his tears.
For Báez, the field is a place of healing—where every glove rip, every bounce of the ball is a reminder: love never dies. “I don’t play for numbers anymore,” he said. “I play for it.” And when Báez steps up to the plate, that son—his dad’s teammate—is there, with him, forever.
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