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A short memoir of my journey from then til now!
"Invisible Man On 1st; The Baseball Field"
When I was about 9 years old, we lived in a modest suburban neighborhood with an empty field next to our house. The scent of fresh-cut grass and the sound of children's laughter filled the air most summer days. Several kids in our area shared a passion for baseball, and we saw that empty field as an opportunity.
We decided to convert it into our own baseball diamond, mimicking a professional field as closely as our young minds and limited resources would allow. With determination, we dug base paths, created a pitcher's mound, and built a makeshift wooden backstop. We even crafted white bases for first, second, third, and home plate.
Of course, we never had enough players for full teams, so we had to get creative. We invented the concept of 'invisible men' to fill out our roster. If a team had only three players and someone got a hit, they'd call out, "Invisible man on first!" This phantom runner would hold the base, allowing the batter to step up to the plate again.
We also played by 'Pitcher's hand out' rules. If a batter hit the ball and it was fielded and thrown to the pitcher's mound before the runner reached first base, they were out. Simple, but it kept the game moving and added an extra layer of excitement.
One sunny afternoon, we gathered for a game. My father, a vertically challenged, short-tempered, and muscular man with a stern face, stood watching from the sidelines. I took my position at deep second base, while my sister, disinterested in batting, played pitcher for both teams. My younger brother stepped up to the plate, his small hands gripping the bat tightly.
He swung and connected, sending a single into the outfield. "Safe!" we all called as he reached first base before the ball returned to the pitcher. "Invisible man on first," he declared proudly, stepping back up to bat.
The pitch came in, and CRACK! My brother hit a ground ball directly at me. Time seemed to slow as I fielded it cleanly, touching second base to force out the invisible runner. In one fluid motion, I fired the ball to my sister on the mound, beating my brother to first base by a hair.
"Double play!" I shouted triumphantly, my heart racing with excitement.
But then, my father's voice cut through the cheers. "No," he said firmly, stepping onto the field. "That's not a double play."
My stomach dropped. I knew that tone. I tried to argue my case, explaining the rules we'd created, but he wouldn't hear it. His face darkened as he grabbed my arm.
"We're going to the basement," he growled, "and you're not coming out until you agree with me."
Fear gripped me as we descended the stairs. What followed was 45 minutes of pain and terror that no child should ever experience. But through it all, through every blow and harsh word, I clung to what I knew was right.
"It was a double play," I repeated, my voice growing hoarse.
Eventually, exhausted and frustrated, my father gave up. As I emerged from the basement, battered and bruised, I felt a strange mix of fear, pride, and confusion.
Later that day, I wandered over to our neighbors' house, where my girlfriend lived. Her father took one look at me and his eyes widened with concern.
"What happened?" he asked gently.
Trembling, I recounted the story. Without a word, he marched over to our house to confront my father. I never knew exactly what was said between them, but years later, my mother revealed something surprising.
"You know," she said, her eyes distant with memory, "on that day, your father said he respected you."
The incident left deep scars, now healed, both physical and emotional. But it also taught me the value of standing up for what I believed in, even in the face of overwhelming opposition. As I grew older, I carried that lesson with me, a bittersweet reminder of the day a simple game of baseball became so much more.
Steven Alexander © 2024
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