Dropping the Ball

When I was in third grade, my older sister, Deborah (a fifth grader) had the coolest friends in the whole school. There was this one boy who would wrestle with me on the playground, and would reply "Touché, mama sow" if you said something cool. She also had another friend who was really into the Talent Sprouts and had a cool leather jacket, but seemed a bit too "slick" to me. But the coolest guy in the whole school was Gehrig (Garret?) Peterson. Gehrig was THE JOCK.

The coolest thing about Deborah's friends was they would let me play baseball with them at recess sometimes. Of course I wasn't as big and strong as they were, but they needed an extra pair of hands sometimes, especially at the positions none of them wanted to play. This meant that when I got to play I usually played catcher.

By the time I reached third grade, I had already played a few years of Little League and I knew my way around the diamond. I wasn't ever the best hitter, but I was a fairly decent fielder and I didn't make mental mistakes, especially when it came to recess ball.

The one moment I remember more clearly than any other recess moment at A.J. Winters elementary school came while I was playing catcher and Gehrig was up to bat. He took a few pitches, and then clipped the bottom of the ball so that it flew into the air behind home plate. I positioned myself under the ball, prepared to make the catch, and at that moment Gehrig shouted "No, don't catch it!". I wanted so desperately to be included. I wanted to be a part of the team. I wanted to be invited back to play again tomorrow. I dropped the ball. I didn't just muff the catch. I opened my arms and let the ball fall straight to the ground. I sold out.

I gave in to peer pressure and sacrificed my integrity to feel included. I should have put Gehrig out. Maybe I didn't realize at the time that putting him out was the only choice THE JOCK would have respected.


(Aside: Deborah will have to correct me on the names.)