Altadena Youth Softball Team Finds Healing Through Sports
'On the field, there are rules. Hit the ball. Run the bases. It makes sense. Nothing else makes sense right now.'
[Youth softball team practicing on one of few remaining community spaces]
The Altadena Lightning practice at Farnsworth Park, one of the few facilities that survived the fires.
For the twelve girls of the Altadena Lightning youth softball team, the past year has been defined by loss. Eight of them lost their homes in the January 2025 wildfires. Two lost family members. All of them lost the neighborhood they knew. But on Tuesday afternoons and Saturday mornings, they find something that still makes sense: the diamond.
“On the field, there are rules,” says coach Maria Santos, 42, whose own home survived but whose daughter’s best friend is now living in a FEMA trailer. “Hit the ball. Run the bases. Catch the pop fly. It makes sense. Nothing else makes sense right now, but softball makes sense.”
The team practices at Farnsworth Park, one of the few recreational facilities in Altadena that wasn’t damaged in the fires. The field is crowded now—several other teams from burned-out parks share the space—but the Lightning have worked out a schedule. Tuesdays at 4, Saturdays at 9. Routine matters.
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When I’m playing, I don’t think about the house. I think about where the ball is going and if I can get there fast enough. That’s it. Just the ball.
Lily Chen, 11, plays shortstop with an intensity that her mother says is new. Before the fire, Lily approached softball casually—it was something to do. Now she throws herself into every play. “It’s the only thing I can control,” Lily explains, with a clarity unusual for her age. “I can’t control where we live or when we’ll have a real house again. But I can control how I play.”
The team has become something more than a sports club. After practice, parents linger in the parking lot, sharing information about insurance claims and rebuilding permits. The girls exchange notes about which schools they’ve been temporarily zoned to. It’s a support group disguised as athletics.
“We’ve become each other’s community,” says parent Jennifer Walsh, whose daughter plays second base. “Our actual community is scattered across temporary housing from Pasadena to Glendale. But every Saturday, we’re all in the same place. We see each other. We’re reminded that we’re not alone.”
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Sports are supposed to build character. I’m not sure that’s true. But I know they build community. And that’s what we need right now.
The Lightning will play their spring season starting in March. Their home field—the one at Altadena Community Park—is still closed for restoration. They’ll play all their games as the “away” team, borrowing space from leagues in Pasadena and Burbank.
“We don’t have a home field anymore,” says team captain Sofia Reyes, 12. “But we have each other. And we’re pretty good. We might actually win the league this year.”
She pauses, adjusting her cap—one of the few possessions she managed to grab before her family evacuated.
“That would be nice,” she adds quietly. “Winning something would be nice.”
As practice wraps up, the girls gather for a team cheer. Their voices echo across the park, mixing with the sounds of other teams, other families, other survivors finding their own ways to hold on. The sun is setting behind the San Gabriel Mountains, which still show burn scars on their lower slopes.
“Same time Saturday?” Coach Santos calls out.
The girls nod. Same time Saturday. Something to count on.