Take Me Out

The great thing about learning sports as a kid is that no one really expects you to do well. Sure, every parent hopes their child will pick up the fundamentals, but the general thesis is that teamwork and camaraderie are the real prizes to be won.

I stopped playing baseball as soon as the kids start pitching. Topsham Recreation Department started us off with tee ball; moved us up to coaches pitching; and, at far too young a threshold, gave the rock solid ball to children from the other team to hurl at us innocents.

That season, I did not hit the ball once. I only either struck out or took a walk. Thank God I was never actually hit by the ball, or if I was, that it didn’t traumatize me beyond repair. Though seeing Will Bouchard on the pitchers mound gearing up to throw something at you never quite leaves your mind.

I never imagined what would have happened if I stuck with baseball. Discovering new friends was unlikely, seeing as such a phenomenon was generally correlated with athletic prowess. I could have met another queer kid or aspiring writer, perhaps. But such a friend could only be found sulking in the corner of the dugout, an uninspiring if poetic scene.

I think I would have learned how to live with the fear. The kids would have become better at pitching, and statistically, at some point, I would have hit the ball.

But instead, I fled to running. No flying object. None but me.