We Should Play Ten-Strike Kickball

Last night I was watching A League of Their Own (great movie) and it forced me to go down Memory Lane. Not my favorite Lane in this particular moment.

In High School I played softball and was pretty good. Keep in mind that I went to a ridiculously small (21 Seniors in my graduating class) private school and our league was so low it may have been made up. Never the less, I played short-stop, I batted 4th cuz I was the “big hitter,” and I absolutely loved the game.

During my final year playing for the Lady Bears, I was eighteen and my coach was nineteen, an older brother of one of the players. He was cute, funny, and nice and basically all the girls were in love with him and I, of course, was no exception. To this day, I maintain that we had a little chemistry between us and I wasn’t the only one that felt it but most likely he doesn’t even remember my name (now that I think about it, I can’t remember his name either…whoops). Anyway, he liked that I was such a strong hitter and never hesitated to give me the “swing away” sign from the third-baseline. With a huge grin on his gorgeous face he’d do any number of ridiculous hand-signs before finally ending it with the well-known fist over fist. ‘Swing away, Adrienne, and don’t forget to put a little oomph on it.’

This all leads me to one of the most disappointing days of my life. I know.

It was the last league game of my Senior year on a beautiful, sunny day in Who Knows Where, California. We were murdering the other team, mostly due to the fact that their pitcher lobbed the ball as if someone had paid her millions to throw the game. It was my last up, my last up forever basically since we all knew I wasn’t good enough to play for any respectable college, and I looked over to my coach, standing there on the third baseline, for the last time and saw him signal me to come over with one finger. My heart skipped a beat and I floated over to him, bat dragging slightly on the topsoil. He inched me closer with that one finger, a look of intensity in his eyes which never left mine. I was inches away from his tan, slightly sweaty face and it felt like I could fly away there were so many butterfly’s in my stomach.

Coach smiled and said, “You see those trees way off in the distance? I want you to hit it over those trees. I don’t just want a home run. I want them to never be able to find that ball again.” I smugly smiled back and nodded my head as if this was no problem whatsoever and turned to look at the pitcher as I made my way back to the box and took on my most intimidating batting-stance.

Now, my rule, as told to me by my father when he saw that I had potential at the age of I’d say 7, was to never hit the first pitch. The first pitch was to be used as a guide so one could get a feel for the pitcher’s style and make sure they were fully prepared for the best hit possible. Naturally, I didn’t change my strategy for this pitcher and let her lob a measly strike right into the catcher’s mitt. Alright. Now I was ready to play ball.

Her second pitch flew towards me and I swung with all my might. WHOOSH. No contact. I was so ahead of the ball, my swing was over practically before the ball left her hand. Strike two! Oops, patience. But, even then, I still wasn’t worried.

The next pitch was a little too far outside for me so I let it pass.

Strike three!

This pitcher who I had completely written off all game just made me look like a fool. This pitcher who I had looked down my nose at from the bench just made mince meat out of me. This pitcher who, in my not so humble opinion, had mere minutes ago, no right to call herself a ball player just struck me out. One. Two. Three.

This was the moment in which my world shut down. I was completely lost in a downward spiral of disappointment and shame. I couldn’t bare to look at anyone as I made the long walk back to the dugout. Especially my coach.

I didn’t speak to anyone the rest of the game and all the way home. I don’t even think I said good-bye to anyone when we got back to the school. I just went straight to my car, drove home, went to my bedroom, and cried.

It wasn’t just that I had botched the last at-bat I would ever have as part of a real team. It wasn’t just that I had been so smug and completely embarrassed myself. It wasn’t even that my coach had put so much faith in me and I let him down on the last day I would ever see him. No. I cried because at that moment when my time to step up to the plate and hit a homerun actually came, I choked. I froze. I let the ball fly by and there was no second chance.

This was so much more than a game and a pitch. This was a metaphor for a life I did not want to live. When those really important moments in life are right there in front of me, I don’t want to step up to the plate and fail to deliver. When people are counting on me and I actually do have what it takes, I want to hit the ball out of the park and celebrate.

I’m not one for sports analogies but when one presents itself so perfectly, I can’t just ignore it. I still think back on that moment today and cringe. As silly as it sounds, if I could go back and re-do just about anything in my life, that would be at the top of my list. I would hit the, excuse my French, SH** out of that ball and run around those bases with a huge smile on my face.

When my moments come, I will not fail.

I know, I know, there's no crying in baseball

-Age