The Tragedy of Batting

Even though my coach knew batting was very dramatic for me, he deliberately made me bat every game; of course, he also made the rest of the team bat too because that was a rule of the game, but I secretly knew he had it in for me.  He had to take pleasure in my pain.
       It was my team's turn to bat because we had struck out the other team.  This day was not different from any other day; I was going to have to bat as usual.  My feet shuffled the rest of me slowly to the bat rack as I was summoned.  I grabbed a bat and walked onto the field to wait for my turn. 
       As I stood in the circle created to withhold the next batter in line, I watched as the girl in front of me hit the ball and ran to first base. Even though I hated her for hitting a ball and making my turn come sooner than expected, I wished I were in her place, not because she was on a base but because she had hit the ball.  I had never hit a ball and did not understand why I could not hit one.  The ball would fly right past the bat like a speeding car trying to get away from the police.  I always swung too soon and completely whiffed.  After three perfect strikes, my tear-stained face and I would drag another unused bat back into the dugout.  I would then sit there shaking, my legs turning into wiggling spaghetti, and my head would bob all around because I once again had let my team down.
       The umpire called me up to bat.  I dragged the bat over with me to home plate and positioned myself over the plate as I had been taught:  shoulders back, head turned towards the pitcher and slightly back, and the bat resting slightly above my shoulders.  I looked the part of the typical home run hitter; of course, I was not fooling anyone but myself.  I watched as the pitcher with an evil smirk threw her first pitch at me.  I did not swing, hoping the ball was above the strike zone.  The umpire uttered the word so familiar to me, "Strike."  As the catcher threw the ball back to the pitcher, my coach yelled, "You can do it Nicole.  Just remember what I told you." 

I did remember what he had told me. That was why I did not swing at the first pitch.  In practice, I swung at all the pitches no matter what.  I figured the more I swung the bat the better my chances were of hitting the ball, which was never the case.  My coach had told me to watch the ball and to see if it was at the right level to hit.  If it was too high or too low, then I should not waste my time trying to hit the ball.  His advice would not save me because I could never tell if it was too high or too low.  All I could really do was hope the ball was one of the two and just not swing; anything that did not cause the umpire to yell that dreadful word would be sufficient enough for me.
       By the time my head had cleared, the pitcher had sneaked another pitch past me, the umpire had called another strike, the catcher had thrown the ball back to the pitcher, and the pitcher was preparing to throw her last pitch.  This was my last chance to show I was capable of hitting a ball.  I pushed back the awaiting tears and gritted my teeth.  With her right hand clutching the ball, she threw her arm behind her head, which caused her leg to leave the ground; she looked as though she was fighting a strong wind and losing the battle.  She let the ball slip out of her hand and the ball came barreling towards me.  Her leg fell to the ground in front of her.  Just as the ball was in hitting range, I clutched the bat, leaned forward on my left foot, and swung the bat.
       Somewhere in between my shoulder and the extension of my arm, I had hit the ball.  The ball flew into far left field, and I threw the bat down prepared to run.  I ran past first base and second base but, because of excitement and inexperience, I skipped over the two bases, touching only the dirt beside them.  By the time I was approaching third base, the members of the other team had grabbed the ball and were running towards me with hopes of defending their base.  I refused to allow my first time hitting a ball to be associated with a negative outcome; therefore, I completely skipped third base.  I made a U-turn so far away from third gase that not even the dirt my feet had rustled up landed near the base.  I headed straight for home plate.  With a violent, excited jump I landed in the middle of the only base my feet touched that day.
       As I stood on home plate basking in what felt like glory, I was interrupted by the screams of angry mothers.  The mothers of the other team were yelling that I had cheated and that the home run should not count as a home run because I had run right past third base and jumped over the other two bases.  I just stood there as the umpire and the two coaches determined my fate.  I decided it would have been better to have missed the last pitch, struck out, and carried the unused bat back to the dugout.  If hitting a ball caused this much chaos, then it just was not worth it to me.  After much debate, my coach walked over to me and told me the home run would count because I had touched home plate.
       Hitting that ball made me reconsider my feelings towards batting.  Batting no longer seemed like a life threatening situation.  Because I knew I was now capable of hitting a ball, I did not cry when I missed a pitch or struck out even though I only hit a ball once in my one season career of softball.  It was okay because I tried my best, although my best only happened to be good enough one time.
       Years later I found out my home run was not counted as a home run.  My coach had lied to me and kept it a secret because he knew something I did not at the time.  Without my "home run,” I would have dragged the same bat back to the dugout, dogged by the same low self-esteem about batting.  I know now that my coach never really had it in for me. It had just seemed that way.