Life, actually…

CATCH AS CATCH CAN’T

Long, long ago, in a galaxy located exactly where I am now, I am in memory sweet a kid with no sports skills…attempting to be a young Babe Ruth in order to please everybody but myself.

I am trying to turn dream into reality.

But here is my reality:

The leathery-skinned ball is speeding directly toward my face. My hands and fingers are splayed in an attempt to catch the ball or at least deflect it from my nose.

It’s coming at me. I close my eyes and try to grab it with both hands.

The ball coming at me seems to be an act of aggression. What did I ever do to this object to make it wish to attack me?

I know that I have to learn not to blink, but how do I do that?

If the ball arrives at waist level I can try to snare it. But my hands are not positioned correctly. I do not know how to coolly intercept it like the playground athletes surrounding me.

I’m also afraid to chase a grounder because the ball will not let me know where it will bounce next. For some reason I have an abiding fear of a broken nose, particularly if it is mine.

“Hey, boy! What team are you going out for?”

The outfield gruffy behind me is wondering how I was allowed to be on the field in the first place.

I have no idea what “going out for” means so I say, “The Red Sox!” The gruffy bites his tongue.

I am destined to be anything but an athlete.

I contract athlete’s foot from the school locker room. As close to living an athlete’s life as I will ever get.

I feebly try again.

At bat, I take the classic stance I see in the movies. The ball surprises me with its intrinsic speed and power. It has already slapped the catcher’s mitt before my swing even begins.

I now realize that the bat must aim at a spot I predict will contain the ball. If said ball does not meet expectation, a strike will be called.

My only strategy is to hope that the pitcher will miss the strike area four times and that I will get to first base by default.

I am overcome with the miserable idea that I cannot play ball, thus disappointing family and humiliating myself.

To make a short story shorter, I do go on to other activities in my long search for a place in the sun. Eventually, I sort of excel at lots of things having nothing to do with sports and macho heroism.

I am grateful for what I can do and I only look back once in a while, at moments like this, to imagine for an instant that it is possible to become an instant Babe Ruth kid.

If only in my dreams

 Jim Reed © 2021 A.D.