Belly Laugh: "Don't Take Me Out to the Ballgame: Part One"

As a child, I always wanted to do the things the other neighborhood boys did.  Some played baseball.  Some played soccer.  Others even took to water skiing and football.  One thing always held me back:  I am horribly uncoordinated.  Frankly, I’m just not “wired” for sports. I flinched at baseballs on every pitch; I counted cloud formations when playing soccer and the whole idea of being tackled in football mortified me.  It just didn’t seem like a civil thing to do to another human being.

My first “athletic” experience was baseball.  My Dad, who always felt being involved in sports was a critical duty of a young man, constantly encouraged me to get involved in the local sporting programs.  One summer, Dad thought it would be a great idea to sign me up for a local baseball little league team.  I can remember it vividly, because I told him I had no interest in playing baseball.  He would persist, and inevitably, we would argue.  One day, Dad asked me why I didn’t like baseball. I told him that the boys in my class threw the ball too hard.  He laughed and said, “Well, let’s help you get past that fear!”  I was excited.  My Dad worked very hard when I was young—often-working 12-14 hour shifts, even on weekends.  There weren’t many opportunities to bond through playtime.  This particular day was different! I was going to “play ball” in the backyard with my Dad.  The sun was harsh that day with a slight breeze in the air.  Dad handed me a leather glove and asked me to walk about ten feet away from him.  We were going to play catch!  I was thrilled with anticipation! 

BAAMMM!  Like a bug slamming into a windshield on clear summer day, it happened!  The problem, however, is that I played the role of the“bug” and the ball served as the windshield.  That ball hit me at a ferocious speed.  I could swear my Dad even broke the sound barrier.  The ball slammed directly into my shoulder with a punch that threw me several feet back.  I was numb.  I didn’t even see it coming.  For some reason, I thought my Dad would “play nice” since I was his son.  Apparently, I was wrong.  Why couldn’t he start with a soft pitch?  Could I call a time out? I can remember having tears flow down my face and my Dad telling me, “You’ve got to get used to it—it’s only a ball, it’s not going to hurt you.”  But it DID hurt.  My Mom, watching from the kitchen window yelled at my Father to stop throwing it so hard.  “He’s got to get used to it, Susie!  Trust me; I know what I’m doing!”  I was so relieved my Mom was there to defend me.  But the pitches didn’t stop, and I never caught a single one.  I know my Dad had the best of intentions, but for some reason, I couldn’t understand his methodology. 

The next week, Mom took me to the local park district office.  I asked Mom why we were going to the park district and she explained that we needed to pay for my new uniform.  “Uniform?  For what?”  I asked.  “For your new baseball team—remember, you’re playing Little League this summer!”  I slumped into the back seat and sulked. I thought I had already made it clear that I had no intentions of playing baseball.  If my lackluster weekend “catch” performance didn’t cement the idea, what could?  Mom pulled into the front parking spot and quickly jumped out of the car.  I can remember the dust from the white gravel road still circling the windshield as I patiently awaited Mom’s return.  A man with a red ball cap stood and talked to my Mom for a few minutes, Mom exchanged cash with him, and the ball cap man handed her a plastic bundle, along with a sheet of paper.  When Mom got into the car, she beamed from ear to ear as she handed me my new uniform and schedule of games.  My heart sunk, and my throat seemed tight. I wanted so much to please my Dad.  And I knew this would do it. But I also knew I would be a huge failure in baseball.  My fear had long overtaken my ability to believe in my own potential when it came to sports. 

I took the uniform, opened the bundle as if it were a present on Christmas morning, smiled graciously, and said, “Mom, it’s a really nice uniform, and I’ll wear it.  But I’m not playing baseball.”  Understanding the sincerity in my voice, my Mom promptly returned the uniform and took me for an ice cream cone. That was the end of my baseball career.