Ball Games, Ages 9 & 21

When I was younger, baseball was a recipe for personal disaster. I grew up in a developing neighborhood, which meant the area was ripe for new families with growing children. As a result, my street was littered with other kids around my age, though just as many were older and younger. It was, by all social guidelines, the ideal place to grow up. And at times it served that purpose, but in other ways it was a dangerously conservative and stunting environment in which to remain trapped.

Let’s get straight to the point: I was, never have been, and never will be athletic. Many feeble attempts were made to counteract my shortcomings. It began with tee-ball. I was on the White Sox team. My only shining moment came in our very last game when I accidentally caught a ball by sticking my glove in the air to wave at my mom. Don’t get me wrong, it felt satisfying and all, but something told me that I couldn’t wait around all season for one glorious moment of acceptance from the team. So, I quit.

I stuck with soccer for a little bit longer. Admittedly, I was in it for the free parties at the end of the season. Nothing beat playing for The Whole Darn Thing, a locally owned sub shop, because we all knew that, if for nothing else, we were going to kick that ball as hard as we could for those free delicious sandwiches waiting for us. But my scarring moment came the day I was appointed goalie. I watched helplessly and defenselessly as one soccer ball after another soccer ball swooshed into the net behind me, my body and strength too weak to act as the backbone of a youth soccer team that wasn’t just for fun no matter how many times they led you to believe that.

That was the end for me and team sports. Later came tennis lessons, but even individually designed sports left me feeling inadequate. Sometimes I would join my brother and his friends in the backyard for games, but more often than not I was pressured into participating in an effort to even out the number of players. It was never fun, but always humiliating. Never mind the fact that I was four years younger than most of the other boys, the bottom line was that I simply could not keep up with their athletic prowess – their abilities to seemingly run forever despite sweat-soaked foreheads and bodies, to gracefully jump fences for over-hit baseballs, to endure games even long into the night when darkness prevented any real play.

I was happiest when left alone. My idea of “recreation” was jarringly different than everyone else’s. I remember wondering why no one wanted to join me in my adventures, but after a while I gave up inviting others to join me and began to enjoy my solitude. I found contentment in digging for dinosaurs, catching grasshoppers and lightning bugs in old glass jars, and staring up into the stars until I fell asleep and was woken up by the cold nudging of frost. None of this was interesting or acceptable in a neighborhood “ruled” by boys on the verge of puberty.

Eventually I always gave in and became that extra hitter or dodge ball target. And that’s fine; I survived. The trick to just getting by was a delicate balance between being present in the game and daydreaming. Some of my best moments were spent fantasizing about music waking me up in the morning (birds) and lulling me to sleep at night (crickets) and about constellations that I’d read about in a book, all the meanwhile I was standing in the outfield waiting for the inevitable ball to come my way. Of course I would cower and mess up the point for my team, but that’s okay; there was a reason I shuffled between the two teams. No matter what, it always came down to the experience.

I once read an essay about poetry that talked about how everything a poet experiences is poetic to him. As pretentious and dramatic as it is, why wouldn’t it be the same for me? My flavor is for the journey, never the destination. I prefer the car ride to the arrival. I’d rather turn the page than finish the book. I’ll listen to a song on repeat as if to fool myself that it never ends, believing that my favorite part can live on forever as long as the loop function cooperates. Sometimes I get so lost in the experience that I become quiet and reserved. I often fear that my silence comes off as awkward at best and hateful at worst, that if I’m barely audible, it’s because I obviously must be having a horrible time. It’s exactly the opposite though. There are moments when I’m so overtaken with happiness that there is nothing I can do but remove myself and watch in astonishment as I realize where I am and what I’m in. How do I get so lucky sometimes?

This is how life feels now. I can like kickball again. Playing volleyball isn’t as terrifying as it was in gym class. Laughing at my athletic skills – no matter how inferior or superior they are compared to hegemonic standards – is a lot more fun knowing that the judgment I felt when I was younger no longer exists. What I’m really trying to say beneath all of these coming-of-age, faux-grandiose statements is that I can enjoy ball games again. Sometimes I whiff, and sometimes I don’t. Who’s really keeping track anymore?