There it Goes! A Long Drive! If It Stays Fair... Home Run!

I was the first girl in my Little League to hit a home run. I did it on Opening Day. 

Yet the main thing I remember from that day was that my mom (who came to every one of my games) wasn’t watching when it happened. This sticks in my mind not because I was sad, disappointed or upset, but because I thought it was funny. It’s absolutely perfect and makes complete sense. She’s a talker. A socializer. She was turned around talking to another parent when they kindly interrupted her to point out, “Uh, hey, your daughter just hit a home run.” You would have thought the cheering (I’ll just assume the entire place went nuts) would have gotten her to turn around to see what was going on. Nope. Too deep in conversation. I hope it was worth it, Mom, because I'm scarred for life! That must be why I was drawn to comedy.

I will give her this, at least she had the balls to tell me the truth and not pretend like she witnessed it. I can pretty much guarantee my reaction was the equivalent of the facepalm emoji. To be honest, I wouldn’t have it any other way. We wouldn't know it at the time, but turns out she’d see me hit many, many more home runs in my baseball and softball careers, so I guess we’re good. 

There wasn’t much fanfare on that spring afternoon. I probably got a banana split after the game, which is shocking that I can’t recall that in vivid detail. The ball sailed past the left field fence, down the foul line. I always was a pull hitter. I do know my teammates stormed home plate, and quite honestly, I’m not even sure if I touched it. This was before the days of everyone clearing the way so the umpire can see the foot hit the plate and officially count the run. I also don’t know if that run actually meant anything. It was the 6th inning (top? bottom? who knows) and the 6th run scored for our team so we were either winning or losing by enough to make it (the run, not the moment) inconsequential. 

What I do know is that it reinforced (to me) that I could play baseball. I may have only been allowed to play the league required minimum of 3 innings and 1 at bat for most of my Little League career, but I proved that if I had been given more chances, maybe I could have hit a few more dingers. I guess we’ll never know.

As a humble trailblazer is wont to do, I like to hold my self-worth in high regard and think that I paved the way for future girls in the league to maybe be given more of a chance and get a few more at bats. I know this much, the following season when I had aged out of the league my female counterpart, and soon-to-be softball teammate, hit 2 home runs thereby doubling my previously set record! Well, they say records are made to be broken. It would have been nice to hold on to that one for a little longer, yeesh.

You would think with a substantial moment like this the details would be so perfectly etched in my mind. That in reality I had my very own Carlton Fisk moment of waving the ball to stay fair. Other than the details I already provided, I got nothing. What really sticks with me are the little things I experienced, both good and bad. 

These major milestones are just that, milestones. Markers that something really great happened at some point in time which propelled me forward to create the next marker and so on. I guess that's what life is all about. 

What's a milestone event in your sports career that your parent(s) conveniently missed? Share in the comments below. 

Picture it! A Baseball Diamond. You Were 10.

Picture it! Sicily. 1922. 

Okay. Maybe not. 

But really, picture it. Rhode Island. Late 1900s. A youthful looking tomboy stands at shortstop for her AAA Little League team. All of a sudden a male of indiscernible age, but most likely 40s, steps out of the dugout. Her dugout. He heads towards the pitcher’s mound and waves that little girl over from her very comfortable and nicely tended to position. The coach takes the baseball out of the hands of the young boy on the mound and hands it to her. She stares at the ball now in her glove. She thinks to herself, “But I don’t pitch.” She looks back up at the man and eventually says, “Okay.” 

That little girl is you. Really, it's me, but for the purpose of this story and to have more of an emotional impact, it's you. 

You throw you’re allotted warm up pitches and the umpire calls for play to resume. You walk back to the rubber where you perch yourself slightly higher than everyone else on the diamond, which is hard because you're really, really tiny. Then it hits you, “The bases are loaded. And there are no outs. And it's the 6th inning.” As quickly as those thoughts come you just as quickly brush them aside: you’ve got a job to do. 

None of that matters at this moment. It doesn’t matter that you are down by a lot of runs because it's the last inning and the game’s pretty much over anyway. It doesn't matter that you know your team most likely won't be able to come back to win in the bottom of the inning. You don’t quit. You try your hardest. Because that’s who you are. So you start pitching. You get strikes called. You get balls called. Then you… actually... strike someone… out? Cool. One out. Bases still loaded. No runs in. 

You pitch to the next batter and… he hits… a dinky pop up… right in front of the pitcher’s mound? …all right. You easily catch the pop fly. Two outs. Bases still loaded. No runs in. 

Then you pitch to the next batter. 

And the next and the next and the next because your unbelievable lucky streak was really what you expected, a fluke. You’re there for what seems like hours in a never-ending inning that doesn’t matter anyway and never really did. You were just filler. A girl. An inconsequential girl who wasn’t believed in and wasn’t expected to come through in any way so why worry about it?

OR. 

You pitch to the next batter who barely makes contact and hits a slow roller up the third base line. Being the amazing and quick infielder you really are you scoot over to the ball, field it cleanly and easily tag the runner heading towards home from third base. After the runner is called out you turn around, toss the ball back towards the mound in a never-before-seen mic drop as you turn back around and trot across the baseline into your dugout. Three outs. Bases were loaded. No runs in. You think to yourself, "It's alright fellas, I got this." 

It’s not until much later you think, “Did the coach really even care? Was I just a position player being thrown in to save the arms of the real pitchers? Did he really expect anything from me?” Doesn't matter. Because you came to play. And when you play, you fucking play hard. 

Do you recall a “mic drop” moment when you were a complete badass on the field? Share in the comments below.

Athletic Support Isn't Just For Your Boobs

My Mom used to regularly hit me ground balls in our backyard. The yard was… very uneven. I like to think that’s why I became a great fielder. There was no hop I couldn’t immediately adjust to and snag with my glove. Backhand, forehand, right at my face, didn’t matter. It was getting stopped. It also didn’t hurt that I loved fielding and could do it for hours. 

My Dad would catch for me when I practiced pitching. I didn’t pitch a lot, nor did I care about it enough to learn how to throw different pitches but I did enjoy the accuracy and cunning it takes to strike somebody out. When I threw a pitch that just grazed the corner I can vividly recall my dad doing his best umpire impression, “Steeerike!”

My Nana and Papa would sit in their car beyond the fence in right center during games and honk the horn every time I got a hit, scored a run, threw someone out. Essentially, any time I did something good. The car horn honked a lot and I proudly smiled every time I heard it. 

Without a supportive family it’s really hard to be “the girl” in a boy’s sport. Every step of the way you have to have someone who’s got your back and is cheering for you. A shoulder you can lean on. An ear that will listen. Unfortunately, my baseball experience, like so many girls before and after me, ended sooner than I would have liked. And like most it was our own choice. It wasn’t because I didn’t have the support to continue, clearly I did. I know the discrimination, judgment, and doubtful looks I received. I can only imagine how much harder the ups, downs and hardships my fellow athletes faced who stuck with the game into high school and throughout college.

I admire these young girls who recognized that their passion could not and would not be compromised no matter what and decided to forge ahead on an unknown path. I admire these young women who continue to sacrifice everything to play the sport they love knowing they will gain nothing*.

*Not necessarily true and used for slightly dramatic effect. Women who continue to play baseball gain strength, satisfaction, mental fortitude, joy, lifelong friendships, opportunities to see the world, experience things most will never get to and maybe even win a fucking gold medal to boot. What they won’t gain is money.

They say that behind every strong man is a stronger woman. Well, behind every strong female baseball player is an unquantifiable amount of strength from a multitude of people. The next time (or the first time) you meet a female who plays baseball show her the support she deserves. Tell her you got her back. She'd appreciate it. She might even smile like she's hearing a car horn.

Who's your support system? Share in the comments below.

Congenital Baseball Disorder

You could say baseball is in my blood. That may be a bit of an exaggeration as well as an unproven and unsubstantiated fact, but it might as well be true. For some reason that I have no knowledge of, that transcends all logic, baseball was, is, and always will be in me and a part of my life.

Like many, sports, specifically baseball, was passed down to me through family outings and youth summer activities. Until recently, it was a cheap way to take your kids on a fun-filled exciting adventure to watch adult men hit a ball with a stick while other adults watch and scream while drinking beer. Now it's an expensive way to experience all that. But I digress.

You could say my loving baseball is a forced upon or learned behavior but I stopped giving a shit about soccer when I was 8. Baseball, however, yeah, it's still in there, running through my veins. Neither of my parents played. My older sister didn't play. So why me? How was I so fortunate to be chosen? I don't know and I choose not to question it. 

Some of my earliest memories revolve around baseball: playing t-ball on a grass-covered, barely-kept baseball diamond outside the Navy Base adjacent to a major road. We were 5 and 6, so I guess car traffic wasn’t a major concern since none of us were hitting bombs, that's if any of us were even hitting anything other than the rubber tee.

I remember hanging carved-out gallon milk jugs over the fence to get autographs from up and coming minor leaguers at McCoy Stadium.

My Nana would tell me how she’d faithfully listen to the Red Sox during World War II while her husband was overseas. She knew all the players names. As she was passing away an all important September Red Sox game was playing on the television set by her bed.

Then there's the day in Little League when I wasn't allowed to play third base. The coach, who I don't have to clarify was a man but will, didn't expressly state why I couldn't play there. I was innocent enough to not really put too much thought into it, hell I just wanted to play, but also inherently wily enough to have my suspicions. Shortly after, when I saw the lucky boy (whose name is seared in my brain but shall remain nameless) at third barely throw it past the pitcher's mound (from my great view at second base) I thought the pre-teen equivalent of, "Are you fucking kidding me?"

And on it goes. 

See, when you’re a girl who plays baseball, who loves baseball, there are assumptions made about you. Oh, so many assumptions. You're not strong enough, you're not tough enough, you can't make the throw, you can't hit, blah, blah, blah. It can be hard when the sport doesn’t necessarily love you back. Not only does the sport not care about you, sometimes it feels like your fellow players and coaches don’t care about you. You’re a girl. Playing a boy's sport. The sport itself is an inanimate game, I'll let it off the hook because I know deep down if it were a person it would truly love me as much as I love it. But the people? C'mon, guys, grow a pair! 

I will take this moment to state that yes, there were men and boys in my baseball experience, as well as men and boys in many other girls' experiences who do support women who play baseball. And believe me I will delve into that more, but in general, the women playing baseball are going to hit more roadblocks than the boys as far as support and encouragement. Overall, I'm glad to see that things are changing for the better. 

There's a stigma that sometimes comes along with being a girl who's into baseball. Whereas you're not considered tough enough to play the game, you're also not feminine enough to simply be a female. There's no middle ground. It's an arbitrary dichotomy imposed on us when really, can't we be both? Can't we be whoever the hell we are? Can't we just be? We are both tough enough and feminine enough. 

And also, why is it bad to “throw like a girl”? I'm pretty sure I could throw better than at least one (*cough*) of my former teammates. 

That’s what this blog is about. I'm not unique. My stories are my own, but I'm willing to bet that they’re also universal to many other girls and women who have played and continue to play. Ask any female who’s played America’s game and you’ll hear the same sentiments: feeling of loneliness, exclusion, the pressure to play softball.

While I’ll write to inform and entertain, I do hope you'll look at things a little differently, whether you’re a man, woman, boy, girl, transgender, non-gender conforming, baseball lover, baseball hater (do those exist?), parent or relative of a girl who just wants to play. Why? Because it's in her blood. It's who she is. She can't help it.

What are your experiences with baseball? Share in the comments below.