Personal Narrative: Mocking A Ball

It was a hot summer day in Hammond, Louisiana and I was pouring down sweat like I had just jumped in a pool. The game was just about to begin, me and my team was eagle eyeing the bomb squad. It was so quiet that you could hear your own sweat hitting the bench. The umpire broke up everyone’s concentration by saying, “play ball”! The defense had ran out on the field and I started rolling ground balls from 2nd to short-stop to third base. They had all made good throws back to me and then I threw the ball into the dug-out because the game had begun.

Basketball was a new experience to me a few years ago, but i never realized I was going to love it. When I was younger, I’ve always wanted to play the sport of basketball, and I got my opportunity to play when I was in fifth grade at Monte Vista Elementary.

Lights blaring into my eyes, the crack of the bat, the shouting of the overly-devoted parents, the salty aroma arising off of the freshly roasted peanuts, all came together to create the overwhelming presence of a little league baseball game. This was a place where I spent most of my time on week day afternoons, in the spring, watching my brother succeed at America’s pastime. He was really quite good at this sport called baseball; he had just been granted the position of starting pitcher for the team. Sometimes things that have occurred in my life, and stuff I have received, that I may not have necessarily deserve, can be taken for granted. However, after what was about to take place my eyes are given a new perspective.

Final minutes of the first half winding down, my team was marching down the field with a purpose. Across the gridiron was our rival team, Mayfield, who we had beat the previous year in the state championship game. It was a cold November night and the stage was set, playing on their home field, “The Field of Dreams,” in Las Cruses, New Mexico in the semi-finals of the state tournament. Up 14-0, we had the ball and were trying to score before going into halftime. I was handed the ball for a running play and then it happened. Falling to the ground as if I had been shot, I had completely torn my hamstring. I was in complete shock as I lay on the ground. As the pain

Since it was my very first varsity game I was extremely nervous and scared to let my team down. On the first drive I was called out to punt from the back of our end zone. I prepared myself for the worst because our starting long snapper was injured, so my long snapper was a tight end who had never snapped before in his life. The ball ended up being snapped 3 ft over my head and about 10 ft to my left, so I sprinted to get under the ball, jumped

It was dead silent as the ball sat in the air and as if time had stopped. It was December of 2015, I was 13, my team and I was playing for 3rd place in the Colt Classic Tournament. It was a night game at Barrington Station High School. We were playing the Barrington Colts, which was weird considering they are playing for 3rd in their own tournament that they were hosting, before the game, I was talking to some of my teammates Aaron Pattis, Stephen Harris, Bradley Jenkins, Ayden Anderson and I were talking before the game, going into that game we speculated that we had this game in the bag easily as a result of how well our team was playing. Little did we know, we had another problem coming.

Could we get to the ball? If we don’t get the ball they well recover it. It was one of our first games in September. Our record was one, one and one. That means we won once, lost once, and tied once. It was at Unity Field (Home). We were started at 4:30.

Have you ever watched a game of T-ball? You’re watching kids with hats far too big for their heads, or bats too heavy for their arms to swing; it is adorable. I was one of those kids, and during a T-ball game the first signs of an issue that would haunt me for years to come appeared. In the dugout during a t-ball game, I was sitting on a bench waiting to go up to bat. A teammate asked me if the player currently up to bat was my brother. I turned to him and said, “That is my brodder.” He looked confused and responded with “He is your budder?” “No,” I countered, “He is my broffer.” With an even more confused look he asked me again, “He is your buffer?” Now I was annoyed. I thought I sounded normal, but he was looking at me like I had a third eye. “He. is. My. broffer!” I said, exaggerating the word slowly and condescendingly. That is where the memory cuts off. I don’t remember whether he finally understood what I was trying to say, or if I just gave up in frustration. Although this casual conversation may seem like a one time thing, it was not. My mispronunciation problem would follow me into fruition.

The air was cold and eerie as my teammates and I got ready to take the field for baseball practice. Our coach called for a night practice in the middle of September following our devastating loss in the championship game a few weeks ago. “Let’s go! Start running laps around the field!” my coach shouted as players were still getting dressed and warming up. Most of my teammates still shattered by the championship loss weren’t feeling enthusiastic about practicing. We finished running our laps and moved on to the next portion of our practice which was long tossing. I wasn’t aware that such a routine practice would be the one to change my life.

It was a dark thursday night in April. The sky was clear enough to see the moon shining brightly along with many small circular diamonds. I’m in a dark blue Avalanche, being driven to a baseball diamond. I play for the MIlwaukee Brewers on a little league level. It’s my last game of the season, and I can’t wait for the umpire to say the words “Play Ball” (which states that the game has begun).

It was just like a dream . It was the bottom of the 4th and I could not hit . Then Finally I got my hit , the perfect pitch finally came to me like it was the best pitch . So perfect straight over fence as i rounded 1st base .

I went to Riley’s house and John was there. John brought his tennis ball. Riley said, “Hey let play baseball with the tennis ball”.

So there I was minding my own business, casually rotating some kiwis, and that’s when THEY came in. They were a mildly intimidating group of rowdy basket ball types. By that I mean one of them was literally carrying a basket ball through the store. One of his goons pointed to something in the distance and nodded the other eloquently said, “Oh ho ho!” This was followed by a violent head nod from goon number one, and passionate laughter from holder of the b-ball.

Fair Play basketball has meant so much to me in these past four years because in Fair Play, basketball is a way of life. Even though I started here as a freshman, I know that for a kid in Fair Play basketball starts early with the YMCA league where parents devote their time and effort to teach kids the fundamentals of the game. Then when the kids make it to Junior High they get to learn the style of play they will be using in High School from Coach Lynn Long. Fair Play has long been a Junior High powerhouse due to the guidance of Coach Long as well as parents who coach summer teams at the Courts and The Field House.

When you break your thumb in the middle of a football, and you keep playing till the end takes a lot of grit. It was my very first game as a high schooler, and we were playing our biggest rival Independence. I had hurt my left thumb in the first quarter, but I told myself it was just a little bruise. I said it didn’t really hurt and I would look at it at halftime. Halftime came, and I got so distracted by the game I forgot it hurt really bad. Finally halftime was over, and I was to kick the ball off. I bombed the ball as far as I could, and ran to tackle the ball carrier. Two people had him wrapped up but were having a hard time taking him to the ground. I ran at the three of them, and hit them as hard as I could. I got up from off the ground