When I was a kid I used to throw like a girl. I blame that fact on the lack of a solid father figure while I was growing up. My dad was in the military, so he was away for most of my younger years. It seemed that he volunteered for the assignments that took him places where he couldn’t take his family. At times I used to think that maybe it was easier for him to deal with the military than to be a father, but that’s just speculation on my part because I really never knew what he was thinking.

The closet person I had to a father figure was my uncle who would tell me that he loved me every time that he got drunk. It’s good to be loved and to be told that you’re loved, but when you really thought about it, it wasn’t so great because he used to tell everyone that he loved them when he got drunk including the dog, as far as I know he still does that to this date. I’d like to think that I outgrew that throwing like a girl thing, - yeah I’m sure I have. Put it in the record - I don’t’ throw like a girl anymore! Throwing like a girl was not my only problem, I couldn’t catch anything either. When you’re a male child you want to be able to throw and catch otherwise you might as well spend your entire recess on the corner of the blacktop playing tea party with the girls. For a kid who can’t catch or throw the only fate worse than death itself is to be forced to play little league baseball - and the only thing worse than playing little league baseball when you can’t throw or catch is being on the same team as your older superstar cousin who can throw and catch.

I don’t even remember how I ended up on the little league team. All I know is that my cousin was going to sign up for baseball and somehow he convinced me to go with him and before I knew it … parental forms were signed and I was a member of the White Sox little league baseball team. From the beginning I had a feeling that the coaches were disappointed that I was on the team, but at least they had my superstar cousin so if I stayed on the bench everyone would be happy, including me.

I think the only person who in their heart really didn’t believe I sucked at baseball was my mom. She was at every single one of my games, cheering the team on, cheering me on. Once I figured out where right field was I would stand there and watch her cheer. On those rare occasions when I was allowed to bat everyone else moaned or yelled things at me, but not my mom. She would cheer me on just as loud as she would cheer my superstar cousin, maybe even louder. Now, that’s unconditional love.

If I have to be honest, I didn’t really take little league baseball too seriously. I was content to sit on the bench and pull boogers out my nose, then stick them under the bench, adding to a collection of dried nerd boogers from past little league games. As the year progressed I got better at the game. We found out that I had bad astigmatism so with the addition of thick plastic glasses I was able to actually see the ball when it came my way so I was better prepared to catch it - and for the record, I did catch it a few times.

I remember how excited and scared I was when I found out that my father was going to be coming in from overseas in a couple of weeks and would be at one of  my games. I was excited because I wanted him to see me play, but at the same time I was scared because I didn’t want him to see how bad I actually was at America’s pastime. I asked my superstar cousin for help in doing all the things a good little leaguer should know how to do, and he agreed to help me. Every day after school we would go to the park and practice - queue “Rocky” music here – my cousin and my uncle set out to help me become a better little leaguer. They would pitch the ball to me, slowly at first, and help me to correct my swing so that eventually I was able to hit the ball. I wasn’t going to hit it out of the park, but at least I was going to hit it. They spent countless hours throwing or hitting the ball to me, giving me encouraging words when I missed it and cheering loudly when I caught it. That’s when I realized that my uncle really did love me, even when he wasn’t drinking. In the end I wasn’t a great player like my cousin, but I was better than when I started and that was good enough for me.

On the day of the big game I was ready; ready to hit the ball, ready to catch the ball, and ready to win the game for my father. He was going to be so proud of me. I looked out into the crowd expecting to see my father in his military uniform sitting with my mom and little brother, his chest puffed out with pride. I saw my mom, and I saw my brother, but my dad wasn’t there. His plane must be running late, I wasn’t worried because in my heart I knew that no matter what he would be there. He had promised me he would and he never went back on his promise. I was still scared and nervous, but I had worked so hard every day after school so no matter what was to happen I was ready.

“Please coach,” I begged. “Can I bat?”

The coach was not one of those coaches you see in little league baseball movies who believes that every kid should play no matter how bad they were. He was the coach who wanted to win even if it meant keeping me and all the other bad players on the bench.

I think that on that day the coach was caught off guard by the fact that I wanted to try and hit the ball because he knew I was happy to just sit on the bench and add to the booger collection. He told me that I might be able to bat later depending on the score. I knew then that the only way I would bat would be if we were winning by so many points that the other team had no chance of catching up.

I didn’t care. I just wanted to go out and hit the ball so my dad could see me. I didn’t care if I were the last kid to bat in the game, all I cared was that I had a chance to make him proud of me.

Finally, toward the end of the game the coach called my name and told me to get ready. I would be batting next. My heart was racing and I wanted to run to the restroom. I hated myself for not going to pee before the game because now I felt the urge and it was bad.

The batter before me, his name was Morris, hit the ball out toward left field and made it to second base. I walked out to the plate and was too nervous to look over to where my mom and dad were sitting. I tried to focus on the ball and remember everything that my cousin and uncle had told me during those hours after school. It didn’t even bother me when the whole outfield took three giant steps forward when I stepped to the plate. I was going to show them.

The pitcher went through his windup and whoosh before I could even think of hitting the ball the umpire was yelling “Strike!”

I tapped the end of the bat on my shoe. I don’t know why I did it, but I’d seen a professional player do it in a game once, so I figured it could only help me. I can’t be for certain, but at that moment I thought I saw the umpire roll his eyes.

I thought about using The Force, so I tried to clear my thoughts and tune everything out except the ball.

“Strike two!” I didn’t even see the ball fly over the plate.

Apparently, The Force wasn’t strong with me.

I wanted to do something really cool, but I didn’t know what to do. The only thing I could think of doing was spitting. I don’t know why but as a kid spitting seemed really cool to me, almost as cool as covering one nostril and blowing a booger out the other. I didn’t spit because I knew that if I did all I would do was get a big, slimy loogie all over my shoes, and that would not be cool at all.

I squinted against the sunlight. This was all I needed, the sun. How was I supposed to see the ball if I was looking into the sun? it was bad enough when I could see, and so much worse when I was blinded by the sunlight. I knew then and there that God liked messing with me, how else could that be explained? I closed my eyes for just a second, just to shut out the sun, the other team’s chants of “batter can’t hit”, and the ballpark smell of hot dogs, popcorn and car exhaust, which was making my stomach feel funny. I wanted to throw up and I probably would have if it weren’t for the fact that my father was there watching me. I didn’t want him to see me throw up all over home plate.

In that second that I closed my eyes the pitcher threw the ball. I didn’t know what to do so I did the only thing that registered in my mind…I swung the bat. I didn’t see the ball, but I did hear as the ball hit against the bat and then I heard the voice of Coach Rodriquez yelling, “run! Run!"

I threw the bat and ran to first base as the other team members just stood there transfixed by the ball as it bounced twice then rolled out into left field. Morris ran to third base and I ran to second. I’d like to say that I ran all the way home, but things don’t always turn out perfect in real life like they do in the movies. I never made it home. We were struck out and all I got to was second base, even so, it didn’t matter because I had hit the ball and in the end we won the game. As we left the dugout all the other team members ran to the concession stand where the coach bought us each a snow cone. I ran the other way toward the spectator stands to find my mom and dad.

Coach Rodriquez stopped me before I got too far. “You did a good job out there,” he put his hand on my shoulder. “Here I want you to have this” He handed me a dirty, old baseball. I turned it around in my hand looking at it, not knowing what to do or say. No one had ever given me an old dirty, baseball before. Coach Rodriquez smiled and said. “It’s your ball, the ball you hit out to left field.”

I smiled a big cheesy smile. I know that if I could have seen the smile on my face at that time I would have smiled even harder because when I see someone with a big smile on their face it makes me happy. I don’t know why it does. I think it’s because I get the feeling that they’re happy and their happiness makes me happy. One time I saw an old man walking out of the Mexican bakery with a white bag full of sweet bread. He had this big ol’ cheesy smile on his face and watching him made me smile. He was happy with his sweet bread and I was happy for him. I ran past the other kids who were running the other way toward the snow-cone stand. I ran, with the ball in my hand, and the big cheesy smile on my face toward my mom and dad. I held the ball up in the air, a trophy of all that I worked for, all that I was proud of, all that my father had come to see.

“Daddy,” I yelled. “I got this for you. Are you proud of me? I hit the ball”

My mom went to her knees and hugged me. I remember that as she hugged me, my baseball cap fell off  my head and the wind blew through my hair. “I’m so proud of you.” She had the same cheesy smile on her face as I did. “You were so good.” I hugged my mom, but quickly pulled away from her. I wanted to show my dad the baseball and share with him everything that it represented to me.

I looked around for my dad, but didn’t see him. When I looked at my mom something in her eyes confirmed what I was trying so hard to hide. “I’m sorry.” She began. “Your father couldn’t make it for your game.”

I know she said more, but I didn’t hear anything else she said after that. I let the ball drop to the ground then turned around and slowly walked away, dragging my feet and kicking up dirt as I walked to the car. I turned and watched my cousin as he ate his snow-cone and excitedly told his dad about the homerun he hit during the game. I watched as my uncle put his arm around my cousin’s shoulders and started to walk to their car. I know that if I had run up to him he would have put his other arm around me and told me how proud he was about my accomplishments, but somehow, I knew that just wouldn’t be the same.