Tony DiNozzo would watch any sport the Ohio State Buckeyes played, and that included women's softball. He flipped it on one slow afternoon, four-year-old Tali sitting cross-legged on the floor, coloring on the coffee table. It was a good inning for the Buckeyes, and Tony noticed that Tali had stopped coloring, and instead was completely focused on the television. One of the Buckeye girls hit a two-run homer over the centerfield fence, and as the game cut to commercial while the opposing team changed pitchers, Tali turned to him, her eyes wide.

"Daddy, I really want to do that."


He took her to her first Ohio State softball game at age six, and he had never seen her sit so still for so long, completely transfixed by the girls in front of her.

By age eight, softball was a full-blown obsession consisting of year-round travel teams and hours spent in the backyard playing catch, or hitting off of a tee into a net, and watching every televised game she could. At age ten, she was permanently moved to first base, and so she spent hours having Tony send her all kinds of bad throws to practice jumping and stretching for them. He took her to another Ohio State softball game, and she sat, watching every little move the first baseman made, memorizing. Tony had half a mind to move them to Ohio so that she could watch her heroes every day. She memorized the roster every year, and knew each girl by name, nickname, position, and spot in the offensive lineup.

She hit her first home run at age eleven, a solo shot over the right field fence.

"That was for Ima," she told him. So was every homerun after that—and there were many.

When she reached eighth grade, a coach cornered Tony after a practice, while she was helping to clean up the dugout.

"She's good. If she keeps up this hard work, Division I college good."

"I just don't want her to burn out," Tony told him. "She spends all of her time doing this."

"I don't know if I've ever seen anyone love this game this much."

The middle school coaches used her to demonstrate anything they wanted the other girls to learn. "Do you know how she's this good? I'll bet she's taken a thousand ground balls. At least."

She learned how to calculate batting averages by twelve, and so she always knew hers—and calculated for the other girls on the team, too.


In her first year of high school at a swanky private school that recruited her, she planted a brochure on the kitchen table in front of Tony. "Buckeye summer softball camp. This is how they'll see me." She had a goal, and a one-track mind.

She started at first base on the varsity team for four years, made all-conference four years in a row, won a state championship her senior year as captain.

"Ima would be so proud of you," Tony told her, after every game.

Ohio State was the third offer she received, and she cried, and Tony maybe teared up a little at her complete happiness. She signed her letter of intent on national signing day, her gold Star of David necklace shining against her neck. She looked forward to being able to wear it while playing in college, since jewelry wasn't allowed in high school competition.


When she reached college, Gibbs had retired, and he took it upon himself to travel to every game she ever played. The other girls on her team knew both of her grandfathers, and called them Gibbs and Senior, just like Tali did. Every home run she hit (and there were a lot), she kissed her Star of David necklace as she rounded first base and whispered, "for Ima." She won awards and she played on television and young girls watched her every move at first base like she had so long ago.


As her junior season approached, a rather forlorn Tony asked her over breakfast one morning, "what will you do when it ends?"

She had reached the goal she had worked so hard for for nearly fifteen years, and there were only two years left of this crazy dream she had held onto so tightly for so long.

She smiled. "I want to make the national team. I got invited to camp yesterday."