Guess which girl is me
Picture this, if you will:
It’s a mild day in April. The sky overhead is gray, but the breeze is gentle and laced with the delicate scent of cherry blossoms. To your left, a bar-b-que sizzles and spits, and your eyes sting for a moment as you strain to see through clouds of blue smoke. A few more steps brings you around a bend in the path, and the playing fields are suddenly before you, crawling with cleat-footed ball players whose friends and family have gathered at the metal bleachers to scream and cheer and holler good-natured obscenities at the opposing teams.
The infield is buzzing with excitement; it’s the last game of the day, and the team at bat is up by 5. It’s the last inning, and one of their female players is up at bat. The outfield knows she’s a consistent right-fouler, but they also know she’s enthusiastic and a damn fast runner, so they don’t move in as far as they do for the other female hitters. Here comes the wind up… and now the pitch… a soft, floating underhand that drops directly in front of her outswung bat. Metal and leather make contact with a satisfying whack and the batter sprints for first as her fly ball sails up… way up… over the pitcher… over second…
There’s a girl in the outfield, hovering nervously between first and second. She sees the ball, watches its progress as it soars through the air, hurtling right towards her. She hesitates for a moment, only a moment, calculating her next move. With the mitt on her left hand she crouches slightly, arm extended, readying herself for impact. As the ball begins to drop, slowly at first, then suddenly much faster, she panics. She covers her head with her mitt and starts running backward, screaming you get it! you get it! to the man playing behind her in center field. He charges towards her, towards the falling ball, legs pumping and arm outstretched, but he’s too late. The ball hits the soggy ground with an innocent thump, and the opposing team goes wild as their runner rounds the bases, sliding triumphantly into third amidst a chorus of hoots and whistles.
Our outfielder is completely deflated. She stands with slumped shoulders and one limp hand perched on the edge of her hip. She is looking at the ground, digging her toe into the thick grass and quietly shaking her head. The crowd yells again and she looks up just in time to see that another ball has been hit, caught this time by the shortstop for the third out. As terrible as her performance was, she’s reluctant to follow her team as they jog off the field. If it were up to her, she would stay out there on that damp grass all day long dodging ball after stupid ball. The last thing she wants is to run over to that dugout.
Because she’s first up at bat.
