All the 5th grade boys seemed bigger, stronger and knew more about the nuances of baseball than me. But I joined because Dad encouraged me. I didn’t want anyone to know I was unsure so I imitated and tried to fit in before anyone found me out. I know now that, in reality, I did as well as any other boy out there. But with more than 50 years of hindsight, seeing myself as inadequate looks like a constant thread through my growing up.
I remember a practice one windy afternoon at the dusty field behind the theater. No matter how loud the coach yelled, I couldn’t track the ball from his bat into my glove. He ordered me off to the side where he was determined to keep throwing balls until I learned. He seemed to get madder with every one he let fly. Each ball that landed stung my hand as blowing dirt from the bare ball field burned my sweaty skin. Tears of frustration came while I frantically tried to keep from getting hit in the face. I spent more time chasing than catching and it seemed like it would never end. At least that’s how I remember it, and for the remainder of my short baseball career, I hated that man and baseball. But I stuck with it for the rest of that summer because I was afraid of disappointing Dad and because from inside I heard the voice that tells me, “you’d know stuff if you were a better boy.”
Practices were sometimes dull and sometimes a fun escape, but I really liked the excitement of games. Wearing the uniform and hanging with the pack, I belonged with my neighborhood boys as we came together to play America’s game. We’d size up our opponents and try to imagine ourselves hitting homers, making heroic catches and throwing them out at first base. We’d talk 10-year-old-boy smack to bolster ourselves against a fierce and imposing enemy that was really just another pack of 10-year-old boys we exaggerated by our tales. Then, the game was called to begin and we broke from our warm-up and ran out to our lone positions on the field to play our individual roles.
There I was, a speck of a boy alone in a vast right field where I wasn’t confident I’d catch a fly ball if it came my way and even less sure what to do with it if I did. Out there, I couldn’t fade into the crowd of my superior teammates. I could only thump my glove with my fist, be part of the on-field “chatter”, and silently pray the classic little-league prayer, “Please don’t let it come to me”.
We played a whole season of games but there’s only one I really remember. It was the bottom of the first inning, we were in the field, the other team hadn’t scored, and now it was our turn at bat. We all trotted to the dugout where the coach had the game plan. He had me going in as sixth batter. I hoped our allotted three outs would come somewhere in the first five boys so I could be spared my other imagined humiliation of standing alone at home plate, all eyes on me as I inevitably struck out.
So, first boy up hits a roller past second and gets on first while all the parents cheered his praises. Second up: one, two, three strikes and out. Third boy up: hits a dribbler but makes it to first. We have one out and two on base. Fourth boy strikes out. Now we’re two outs, two on base. I move to the batter’s circle, my heart pounding, barely able to breathe while fifth boy goes to the plate. He hits one over the shortstop and gets on base amid loud cheers. Okay, here we go, bases loaded, two out, excitement building in the stands…. and I’m up.
I walk to the plate trembling inside while mustering a little boy’s resolve and false bravado. I swing a couple of menacing practice swings and take my final stance. The pitcher looks to his coach for direction, at his catcher for the signal, then winds up, and hurls that missile Coach threatened me with in practice. The ball is hurtling for my face, seemingly in slow-motion, and I’m frozen. It doesn’t register with me to duck until too late. Smack! A hard thud as it hits me squarely in the throat. I go down clasping my neck and trying to catch my breath. It wasn’t the pain I felt so much as humiliation and a strong urge to get up and act like nothing happened, as if I could rewind the scene and will away the embarrassing gasps and attention.
I see my Dad run out and I feel a painful, needy whimper escape as I try to swallow back tears. He joins the umpire and coach stooped over me, as far as I know, assessing whether I’m really hurt or just being a pussy. Dad decides I’m hurt and helps me up. With his arm around me, he walks me off the field and in that moment I felt safe and comforted. He was my protector and my hero. Then, in the next moment, when we’re just out of earshot, he turns and with a look of disapproval says disgustedly, “You have a pimple on your nose that needs to be popped. Don’t you ever wash your face, Jimmy?” I shrank into myself a little and the roots of a notion I would nurture for many years grew a little deeper, “maybe Dad wouldn’t be ashamed of me if I could just be a better boy.”