Expressive+Writing+Piece

Down for the Count  With every end of the school year, the fresh smell of spring constantly reminds me of one thing; softball. I miss the feel of my worn out, black leather glove, the red laces of the yellow ball on my fingers as I threw, and the gravel underneath my torn, plastic cleats as I played on my old high school field. I came upon my old softball diamond last spring for the first time in quite a few years. My younger sister was called up to the varsity team as a freshman (I like to think she got her talent from me). While I was there watching the familiar game I longed to play again, I remembered when I once took the game I love so much for granted.  It was my junior year, a year I remember so very much. After the toughest try-outs I have ever experienced, spanning over four rigorous days, my chance to join the recognized varsity team had finally arrived. On the fifth day, I walked, trying not to run, to the bulletin board by the attendance office where we were told the roster would be posted. There it was - my name. Instead of yelling, jumping, or fist pumping like I saw most of the other girls do, I just stood and took a huge sigh of relief. I was agonizing over what would happen for the past few days and I was just excited to play again the much needed weekend.  The varsity coach was notorious for being one of the toughest, meanest coaches the school had. Needless to say, those practices I was looking forward to so much were brutal. When plays weren’t absolutely perfect, we knew to expect the oh-so-familiar screaming fit. But, naturally, because of my perfectionist nature, I constantly strived to make everything perfect - even after getting yelled at regularly for two and a half weeks straight. All the yelling and temper tantrums eventually became the norm which is why I was completely shocked and thrilled when I began the season as one of the sought after, nine starters. However, my joy did not last long.  After beginning the season always starting, I eventually began to get rotated in and out with other players without any explanation. I was still working just as hard during practices but yet I wasn’t seeing the field. I began to grow more and more frustrated and started wondering what I was doing wrong. Eventually, after not knowing what else to do to try and make my grumpy coach happy and have me play again, I gave up. After all the screaming I received for doing my very best and then some, I was fed up. I did what I could to get by because the game I once loved had turned into something I loathed. During a double header in the middle of the season, against our toughest rivals, I started on the bench. Although I was still engaged in the game, I was definitely disappointed because it was one of the first games I wasn’t starting. The game was extremely close, each team edging the other for the lead. The sixth inning came around and our team was down by two runs and, very last minute, my coach yells, “Jesser, get a helmet on!” At last, my time to play had come. I went in to bat for another player and hit a line shot into left field on the very first pitch. Now, I’ll be the first to admit I was not the quickest runner, but, for some reason, I decided I was turning this definite single, into a possible double. I rounded first base constantly aware of the other team’s players and what they were doing with the ball. I sprinted toward second base, my head down, running as fast as I could and, out of the corner of my eye, I saw that the ball was over thrown and I knew I would be safe at second. I rounded the base though, simply trying to see what exactly happened so I could plan my next move. To my dismay, the ball that I thought was really overthrown was actually in the hands of the first baseman twenty feet away. I quickly stopped and changed direction back toward second and without any other choice, I dove head first into the base. I looked up as quick as I could and searched for the umpire - I knew the play was extremely close; was I safe? And then I saw it, the squatty umpire throwing his hands in a horizontal motion yelling “safe!” I was so elated at what I had just done I was thinking of nothing else. Everything happened so quickly that it wasn’t until I went to push my lying body off the dusty ground that I noticed what had happened. The fingers of my right hand, my throwing hand of course, were under the metal cleats of an opposite team member. Now, when you’re playing, and especially when it is a play such as this one, the adrenaline starts pumping and you simply rely on instinct. It is as if nothing else is happening. But when I saw my bloody fingers crooked and pointing in ways they should not be pointing, my adrenaline vanished and all the pain it had been masking came rushing all at once. From pure shock and horror I fell back to the ground; I had never seen anything like it, especially on my own body. I was known as the ‘tough guy’ around the team because getting scabs and bruises was an everyday occurrence which is why it was only when I didn’t get back off the ground that time-out was called. My mean, almost heartless, coach came rushing out to see what had happened and when I showed him my bloody fingers he cussed, and then helped me off the gravel. This was the only time I had seen any sort of human emotion, other than anger that is, come from my coach. He was constantly asking to see if I was okay, and as I wondered why, because this was not normal, I realized it was because I had tears streaming from my face. He was calling the trainer when she was nowhere to be found, and sent other members to look for her at other games that were happening around the complex. After about fifteen minutes, still no trainer and the pain was only getting worse, my dad finally decided it was time to take me to the emergency room. After waiting a solid hour in the waiting room, my fingers bleeding and still all crooked, we finally saw a doctor only to find out that things were so bad that they wouldn’t touch my fingers. Instead, they gave me tons of pain killers and set me up with an appointment to see a hand specialist the next morning. It was then that I received the bad news. As the doctor was looking at my fingers, I asked him how long my hand would have to be in a cast and when I would be able to play again. He looked up, and said I would be out for the rest of the season. I had three broken bones in two fingers and surgery was imminent. I was crushed. The sport I looked forward to playing every spring was no longer an option for me this year. You know that cliché saying, “you never know what you have until it’s gone?” That was exactly how I felt. Even though I had the meanest coach ever, wasn’t playing as much as I was used to and had almost given up; I missed playing softball more than I ever had before. I know softball is just a sport, but it was the one time I could escape from the everyday brutality I was getting from every other direction. Looking back on my junior year now, the year I spent most of my summer getting surgeries and had my arm in a cast up to my elbows for just a couple of fingers, I realize how much I did take my favorite escape for granted. I was young and agile and was actually able to play the hard core sport I loved – but just because I had it a little rough and things didn’t go my way, I wanted to cave in. And even now, I would give almost anything to go back, play and relive one of the ‘glory days.’