It’s baseball – not dodgeball.

There must be others. I can’t be the only one. Baseball magnet. Put me in a field, on a street, in a ball park, it doesn’t matter. I’ll get hit. I instinctively duck out of fear of concussions.

Who knows when it started.  My much older brother probably wanted a younger brother closer in age – one who could actually catch a baseball.  I did my best, out of adoration and gratitude he even asked me to do something.  His well oiled glove slipped and whirled on my little hand like a helicopter.  Maybe looking at it, I didn’t notice the ball which conked me on the head.  Pretty much the remaining part of my childhood, anytime a baseball was tossed in my direction, I squealed, covered my face with my hands, and dropped to the ground in self-defense.  Needless to say, my older brother wasn’t impressed.

Now in elementary school, I surprisingly was in demand during the “long recess” on the playground.  Long recess:  that was the longer of the two recesses we had each day.  Four or five classes and their teachers would head to the dusty sparsely grassed playground “field”.  A pile of bats, balls and a few gloves were pitched in a pile and we were told to go play.  The teachers, correcting whistles around their necks, looked for a shady spot to stand and talk.  Go play.  Does it get any better!  We organized ourselves.

Always the smallest kid in class, everyone was surprised I could really pitch a baseball.  Pitching was much better than playing outfield or a baseman. People generally didn’t throw balls at you – so that was a big plus.  Even more confounding was the fact that I threw left-handed. Being, no other way to say it, really short, combined with the fact that I also batted left-handed, meant I was pretty sure to be walked by pitchers.  But if a ball did get pitched correctly, I could really whack it and run fast.

Playing left-handed was odd when you consider I write right-handed.  I don’t think they gave you a choice of which hand to write with when I was in school.  My mother was left-handed, but I don’t recall any discussion about which hand I was going to learn to use. But sometime, I just started playing baseball as a lefty – it just felt right.

Playing baseball is one thing, but please don’t ask me to watch.  Baseballs are like meteors always aiming for me.  People used to laugh about it for years.  As I got older, I just avoided baseball diamonds.  Memories of the “baseball magnet” faded from memory.  So when the elementary school at the end of the block took down the playground fences and invited the neighborhood to use the field for recreation, it sounded like a great idea to walk our dog around there.

An uneasy feeling began when I noticed a friendly family oriented baseball game in progress.  Anxiety increasing with each moment, I rapidly headed as far from the players as I could get – explaining to my partner about the situation of attracting baseballs.  Of course, laughter followed.  But my heart rated increased, and hands got sweaty.  It was bound to happen.  More laughter and “Come on. It’s kids and parents.  Nobody can hit it this far.”

Almost a soon as those words were uttered, there was a huge CRACK as bat met ball.  It was coming. It was high and long.  I stumbled, turning this way, then that. Watching the arc.  More laughter.  It was coming.  I made a judgement call and backed up until I was crushed against the school ground’s chain link fence.  Hands over my face.  Then the laughter stopped.  I peeked out between my fingers and saw the ball. It had landed right in front of me.  Silently my partner picked up the ball, and pitched  it back to a player. “Maybe we should go now before they start up again?”

Either that, or I have to pitch.

Magnetically yours

Phil, the Philosopher Mouse of the Hedge.

---

Discover more from Philosopher Mouse of the Hedge

Subscribe to get the latest posts to your email.