I<\/span>\u2019m five years old and there\u2019s a baseball game in progress right outside my door. We live at the junction of Thompson and Askew. Our corner serves as home plate. The pitcher stands in the middle of the intersection. Very few cars drive by during a summer day in the neighborhood that Kansas City forgot. If a family owns a car, it means the father has a job, and the car is at work with him.<\/p>\n

I watch the action from my front yard. My older siblings do not invite me into the game. But Trudy, a teenager from down the street, does. She asks if I\u2019d like to take her turn at bat. She\u2019ll help me. I hustle to the corner and take the unwieldy wooden club. I\u2019m big for my age, but not enough to handle an adult-sized baseball bat. Trudy puts her arms around me, providing extra hands to hold the bat steady. Her long, wavy hair falls over my left shoulder.<\/p>\n

A boy is pitching, but I don\u2019t know his name. I\u2019m pretty sure he\u2019s one of Trudy\u2019s many brothers. He lobs a nice, low, slow pitch to make things easy for me, though I won\u2019t realize this until much later. We swing, Trudy and I, contacting the ball, which dribbles along the asphalt. Trudy\u2019s voice tells me to run. I know the goal is to make it around all the bases. I dash to first and keep going, unaware of what anyone else is doing with the baseball or whether it\u2019s relevant to me.<\/p>\n

<\/a><\/p>\n

When I reach second base, caddy-corner to my house, someone tells me I can stop running. Trudy thanks me for helping her bat and sends me back to my house. The teams switch places, while I ride a wave of personal glory to my front door to report to my mother what I\u2019ve done.<\/p>\n

She\u2019s been watching from the window, and is waiting for me with words of\u2026consolation? She tells me lots of baseball players make outs the same way. I hadn\u2019t known I\u2019d made an out. I\u2019m not sure what it means. I only know I performed the amazing feat of hitting the ball, while being included with the big kids. And I have a new favorite thing in my life: baseball.<\/p>\n

**<\/p>\n

A few years later I\u2019m watching a Royals\u2019 game on TV with my dad. I chew my lip in anxiety as an injured Paul Schaal leaves the field. I worry what the team will do now for a third-baseman. Paul Schaal is my favorite player – mostly due to his having the coolest name on the team – though Cookie Rojas is pretty close.<\/p>\n

Over the next couple of weeks, I can speak of almost nothing but my hopes of a quick recovery for Schaal, for surely nobody can serve as an adequate replacement. I suppose the Royals will have to make do with the rookie they choose as a fill-in. \u201cI guess we\u2019ll see what this Brett kid is made of,\u201d says my dad.<\/p>\n

During the next season, I guiltily forget my Schaal loyalty, cheering for George Brett all the way. I spend hours envisioning double plays. I watch every televised game I can. I daydream of being a bat girl, chasing down foul balls and helping the players with warm-up throws.<\/p>\n

A bat and ball reside in my house. I think my older brother left them behind when he moved out. The activities of our neighborhood begin to shift away from street ball and toward street crime. Fewer kids want to get together for games. Sometimes, my just-older brother, a couple of cousins and I will go play on a vacant lot, making liberal use of ghost runners. On occasion, I cajole my mother into going out to the back yard to throw a ball back and forth with me.<\/p>\n

I spend a good amount of time by myself, tossing a ball into the air and swinging at it with the bat. Or else, throwing the ball high in the air and running to catch it. Then honing my aim by throwing at a tree. I study the infield moves of Brett and Patek. In my room, I imitate the fielding motions as best I can, scooping up one imaginary grounder after another, pivoting, throwing the invisible baseball to the phantom first baseman by the closet.<\/p>\n

**<\/p>\n

By age ten, my daydreams promote me from bat girl to major league player. I possess no map of the road to a career in baseball. I\u2019m vaguely aware of something called Little League, but am under the impression it\u2019s one of those California things, like surfing.<\/p>\n

At school, we often play softball at recess. The teacher lets the boys pick teams, on the theory they are the ones who understand sports. Selection order is batting order. Students choose positions as they are selected. The ones at the end take what is left. All of the boys are chosen before a single girl is picked. Even the boys who don\u2019t know about sports, even the boys who duck and flinch when a ball flies nearby. So first the boys, in order of playing ability. Then the girls in order of something. I\u2019m never sure what. Looks? Popularity? I\u2019m never the first girl chosen, but also never the last.<\/p>\n

Each softball day I head to the playground with equal parts eagerness and irritation. I\u2019m bursting for a chance to show everyone what I know I can do, for more chances to hit, for a glory position, such as shortstop or third base. I settle for outfielder and the one turn at bat I\u2019ll get before the bell rings sending us all back inside.<\/p>\n

One spring day, Miss B announces she\u2019s going to try a different method for choosing softball teams. She\u2019ll draw names. From beneath her desk, she produces a shoebox filled with slips of paper. First-drawn, first at bat and first to choose a position. A third of the class cheers, a third groans, and the others don\u2019t seem to care. I\u2019m in the cheering section. Normally, I play my cards close to the vest, but today I\u2019m bouncing in my seat. This is my chance. It could happen.<\/p>\n

Miss B withdraws a slip of paper and reads the name. Tiny Peter Reid is first up. As he walks to the door to head the line, his face is at war with itself. A smile is there before he can stop it, but it disappears under the glares from the bigger boys. I can see him begin to tremble a little as the second name is drawn: Sheila Richards. She and I are usually next to each other two-thirds of the way back in the line-up. She takes her place next to Peter, taller than he by a head, to start the line for the other team. Mitchell Aitkin, who has never not been one of the first two batters on one of the teams, looks murderous. I hope he\u2019s chosen last.<\/p>\n

Miss B selects four more names, none of them Mitchell\u2019s or mine. Mitchell stomps his foot. \u201cI can\u2019t believe this,\u2019 he mutters. I remain silent, focusing all of my energy on silent entreaties to God. Please, if there\u2019s any justice in the universe at all, please let my name be next. I\u2019ve worked harder than anyone. I\u2019m good; I only need the chance to prove it.<\/p>\n

\u201cJerry Simms,\u201d calls Miss B. He tends to bat right behind Mitchell. I cut my glance in Mitchell\u2019s direction. Is he blinking back tears? \u201cLynn Dearborn\u201d looks dazed as she steps into place. She has a nose-picking habit and has never not been last selected. Mitchell clenches his fists. PLEASE! I beg in my head.<\/p>\n

Next slip: \u201cMitchell Aitkin.\u201d He stomps his way over to stand behind Jerry, saying \u201cGreat. It\u2019ll be forever before I get to bat.\u201d Miss B calls more names. I remain in my seat, slouching lower and lower. At last, only two names remain. Veronica Putnam and I look at and then away from one another as the teacher calls her name.<\/p>\n

We file out to the playground, Mitchell lurching, me shuffling. Peter should be taking his place at the plate, but he looks frozen in place, bat in hand, several feet away. It\u2019s as if Mitchell has a super-power paralyzer stare. His eyes are locked on Peter and Peter can\u2019t move. Only when kids start yelling, \u201cC\u2019mon, start the game!\u201d and \u201cBatter up already!\u201d does Peter break free of the spell. He extends the bat toward Mitchell, saying, \u201cYou want to trade places? You can bat in my place.\u201d Mitchell doesn\u2019t thank him as he grabs the bat.<\/p>\n

Already I\u2019m writing the chapter of my autobiography in my head. The autobiography titled My Road to the Big Leagues. This chapter will be called What Nobody Realized Then, or maybe Overcoming Tribulations.<\/p>\n

I go home and watch the Royals game that night with more focus than usual, determined to step up my solo training regimen. I Knew I\u2019d Show Them All Some Day. Perhaps this would be a good chapter title.<\/p>\n

**<\/p>\n

I\u2019m in seventh grade, in the big junior high building. We don\u2019t have recess, but we have gender-segregated P.E. We play softball a lot in P.E. when it\u2019s warm enough. Miss H, the gym teacher, says we\u2019ll take turns picking teams, rotating through every girl in class by the end of the year.<\/p>\n

No mystery surrounds the selection process. Girls are chosen for the line-up in order of popularity. I\u2019m not popular. Even the gym teacher doesn\u2019t like me, because I come with disruptive religious issues. I wear a track suit, instead of the regulation unitard shorts uniform. I\u2019m chosen last or nearly so every time.<\/p>\n

I suspect I\u2019m the only one in class who knows the stats for every single Royals player, the only one to know about the infield fly rule, the only one who practices on her own. But none of it helps. If anything, it hurts my chances. I\u2019m seen as weird. Everyone else in the locker room chats about make-up, pierced ears, Gene Simmons\u2019s tongue, and some TV show I\u2019m not allowed to watch, called Saturday Night Live. My two interests have been baseball and reading. What I know to talk about are the Kansas City Royals and Charles Dickens.<\/p>\n

I find one bright spot. Many of the girls shy away from the positions where they\u2019re likely to see a lot of action. Vicki Espinoza may be first chosen, but she\u2019s not going to risk breaking a nail. Sometimes I get to play third base, my favorite position. And I make some decent plays. It\u2019s not my imagination when I see myself as one of the better players in the class. Admittedly, the competition is not stiff. On the rare occasion I get to bat before gym class ends, I nearly always get a hit. It\u2019s too bad nobody else seems to care much about playing well. The important part is over and done with before we ever take the field.<\/p>\n

My turn to choose a team never seems to roll around. Near the end of the year, I ask Miss H. about it. She says she thinks I was absent the day it was my turn. I begin to admit to myself that a path to the Majors may not be opening itself for me.<\/p>\n

I struggle through my teen years, in fits, starts and spirals, as most people do. By this time, I\u2019m much too self-conscious to be seen outside pitching a ball to myself, though I still occasionally sit on my bed making gentle little tosses and catches. And I still follow the Royals with a devotion bordering on obsession. After ninth grade, I no longer have P.E. My exploits are reduced to the occasional family reunion or church outing game.<\/p>\n

**<\/p>\n

I\u2019m a young adult in the work force when the Royals win the World Series. My boyfriend, one of my brothers and I jump from the couch, hugging and screaming at the moment of victory.<\/p>\n

Days later, there will be a victory parade passing only a couple of blocks from my place of employment. Several of us take a long lunch break and walk over. Members of the team roll by in convertibles, accompanied by family members, as confetti rains down from office windows. Unbelievable amounts of confetti. A blizzard. You\u2019d think a paper mill had blown up. The shredded paper piles up under and around the crawling vehicles. In front of me, one of the cars begins to smoke before it stops completely. A little girl in the back seat screams, overcome by it all. The next thing I know, I\u2019m being shoved aside by outfielder Willie Wilson, carrying his crying daughter out and away from the mayhem. Years later, after my own children are born, I will recall this scene, and think of him as a good father first, a good ballplayer second. He will retroactively rise in my list of favorite baseball players.<\/p>\n

**<\/p>\n

I\u2019m in my forties. I haven\u2019t lived in Kansas City for more than a decade. I\u2019ve spent more than half my life married to the boyfriend with whom I watched the World Series. In all that time, we\u2019ve never owned a television. Over the years, I\u2019ve lost track of Major League Baseball. I don\u2019t know the names of the current players, or even what teams exist. I stopped keeping track when I became disillusioned at the steroids scandals, and when it was no longer easy to catch a game broadcast. I know enough to realize the Royals have become basement dwellers. I can\u2019t remember the last time I held a bat in my hands.<\/p>\n

I\u2019ve done some sports things. I spent years involved in the footbag (Hacky Sack) scene, and also played volleyball in a league for a couple of seasons. But the batting of balls and the running of bases, those things have slipped from my life. Only once, while staying in a hotel, do my kids see the lost part of me. I flip through the channels on the TV, stopping when I spot a Royals uniform. The kids both give me a \u201cwho is this person\u201d look as I start cheering, groaning and commenting on the game.<\/p>\n

I\u2019m in my forties, working at a public library. One day, I open my email to discover a couple of coworkers are putting together a coed softball team, if enough staff members are interested. My fingers type the words \u201cSign me up!\u201d and hit \u201csend\u201d before my brain can ask if it\u2019s really a good idea.<\/p>\n

It\u2019s D-League softball, Sunday evenings, in the fall. Anticipation and dread fight for the upper hand in my psyche. I haven\u2019t played softball in years and years; it will be so fun! I haven\u2019t played softball in years and years; I\u2019ll be terrible. What if I\u2019m the oldest and blindest player on the team? What if I strike out every time and let balls roll through my legs out on the field?<\/p>\n

I keep re-reading the initial email for comfort. The guys say skill level doesn\u2019t matter, only the desire to try and have fun. I hope they mean it, and even more I hope they don\u2019t have to mean it, at least where my ability is concerned. I hope I still have it in me somewhere.<\/p>\n

The first game is scheduled for late August. The team gathers for a practice beforehand, to figure out positions. Except I can\u2019t make it due to family obligations. I think to myself I\u2019ll probably end up with whatever\u2019s left over. Fourth outfielder, probably. And I\u2019m okay with that. I\u2019ll take what I can get. I only want a chance to play a few games again before I die.<\/p>\n

The team captain speaks to me later, asking if I have a preference for what position I want. I tell him I\u2019ll take whatever\u2019s left, unless it\u2019s pitcher. He says we need someone at third base. Will I play third? YES! Um, yeah, I\u2019ll give it a try, I tell him. Third base! I\u2019ll be playing third base! George Brett, I\u2019ll try not to let you down.<\/p>\n

The beginning of the season is delayed by rain, and delayed, and delayed. It\u2019s an unusually rainy year. The week we\u2019re finally supposed to begin, I have a family wedding to attend. Damned family, keeping me from softball again! Through these weeks of waiting, I have time to worry even more about how I will perform. I feel an urgency to practice. My husband is kind enough to take up my mother\u2019s old assignment: get me to stop whining by throwing a ball with me out in the yard. My best friend is game for hitting the batting cages with me. I develop a fierce blister on my left hand and realize I\u2019ll have to take off my wedding ring when I\u2019m playing.<\/p>\n

The Sunday after the wedding, I tell the butterflies in my stomach to hush and I take my glove out to the softball fields, only to discover the games are called due to wet fields. It has rained the day before. One more week then. This is starting to feel a lot like being picked last in P.E.<\/p>\n

In late September, a full month later than anticipated, I finally get to play a game. We lose spectacularly, but I don\u2019t humiliate myself. I even make it onto base once, meeting my goal of not striking out, by dribbling the ball out onto the infield halfway between the pitcher and the catcher and running hard to first base before either of them can get to it and make a throw. The next batter up hits one to the deep outfield and I charge around the bases from first to home, scoring a run. The next day, my quadriceps inform me I should have been running to get in shape, in addition to my throwing and batting practices.<\/p>\n

For the first couple of games, very few balls come my way at third base. D League is not populated with power hitters. The right-handers are hitting toward right field, not left. The few times I am called into action, I don\u2019t flub too badly. I take a throw once from the shortstop and actually catch it. Another time, a ball bounces off my wrist, directly to the same shortstop, who then throws out the runner at second. Only once do I truly embarrass myself, not keeping my head. Taking a throw for a forced out at third, I miss the bag with my foot, and the runner contacts it before I do. Too late I realize I could have tagged her as she ran up.<\/p>\n

We lose most of our games in a Bad News Bears kind of way, often ending early due to the mercy rule, which allows the umpire to call the game if one team is a ridiculous number of runs ahead. In fact, we will end the season with a record of 1-7. But I keep up with my personal aspirations to mediocrity, with no strikeouts and no balls through the legs. I get a couple of walks, and otherwise hit the ball somewhere on the ground in the infield. I get thrown out at first a lot, but sometimes not. Eye on the ball, glove on the ground, eye on the ball, glove on the ground\u2026my silent mantra. Not that I\u2019m having many glove on the ground moments.<\/p>\n

It\u2019s the last game of the season. We\u2019re behind, as usual. I\u2019m at third base. The other team has runners on first and second, with two outs. \u201cRemember, force at third,\u201d the short stop reminds me. I nod. The batter swings. A fast grounder shoots toward left field. Glove on the ground. I scoop up the ball, and in one smooth motion, pivot and run the three steps to third base, not missing the bag with my foot this time. The runner is out! The inning ends on an unassisted play by the third base woman: me.<\/p>\n

We lose the game by a score of 21 to 7, but this hardly matters. Okay, it probably matters to everyone else. But for me, the one play is enough to send me home on a wave of glory, equal to the one I rode to my front door and my waiting mother all those years ago.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

\u201cI guess we\u2019ll see what this Brett kid is made of”<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-2463","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-essays"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/ducts.sundresspublications.com\/content\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2463","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/ducts.sundresspublications.com\/content\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/ducts.sundresspublications.com\/content\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/ducts.sundresspublications.com\/content\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/ducts.sundresspublications.com\/content\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=2463"}],"version-history":[{"count":5,"href":"https:\/\/ducts.sundresspublications.com\/content\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2463\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":2671,"href":"https:\/\/ducts.sundresspublications.com\/content\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2463\/revisions\/2671"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/ducts.sundresspublications.com\/content\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=2463"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/ducts.sundresspublications.com\/content\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=2463"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/ducts.sundresspublications.com\/content\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=2463"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}