I had severe asthma as a child. In the 8th grade I missed 52 days of school and a week of that was spent in the hospital with asthma compounded by bronchial pneumonia. Perhaps it was then that I realized that you could tell the kind of underwear a nurse wore through her pants.
But I tried.
I tried playing basketball for a season with my best friend in the world - to this day - Grant Hadden. His dad coached. I never made a basket. Before you read any further I need to tell you it only gets worse from here. I must also tell you that it's OK to laugh at an 11 year old with severe asthma, a pronounced lisp and generally akward presence.
Maybe baseball? Sure! Why not. Baseball. It's American. Surely it would cure my asthma, extend my height and maybe, just maybe get Laura VanLeeuwen to go out with me. The team was the Sandymount Royals. It was the summer of '79. Practice should have been enough of a warning, but who knew that how you performed at practice was a good indication of how you'd play in the game? But fear not; I was here to try. No one ever got hurt for trying... right?
And then that Saturday came - it was game day. Game 1. A warm summer's morning that held all the promise a summer day could hold for an 11 year old. With courage we'd borrowed from the green army men we'd recently mangled we suited up and swaggered into the dugout. The coach bellowed hollow words we didn't know the meaning of yet, but we all looked him in the eye and fraudulently lied back to him, "I hear you. I understand. I will not let you down."
Batter up! And the batter was me. Numero uno here to put the chrome on the bumper day that was certain to be the grandest of all the days of my life so far. Helmet? Yes. Glove? Yes. Bat in my hand as soundly as Execalibur in the hand of Arthur. Then it was he and I. His job was to ferry the ball and twas mine to strike it! A last gaze to the pitcher before the umpire's hands fell to his sides signaling the ready. As the pitcher's arm went back it was as if his arm was attached to my lungs as I inhaled subtly deeper with each degree of his wind up. Release! and fate was only a second away.
I don't really recall the ball striking me in the head. To say that it happened fast would not convey the speed as it was. I do recall tears, but I also recall being brave enough to take a base; No! not A base MY base. The one I had earned from the experience of the first pitch of the game. And off at 45 degrees I trotted to meet my temporary friends at first base; all of whom treated me like a soldier returning home from WWII.
And then came the second batter. And the second pitch. And a foul ball that ricocheted off of my head while I was standing there at first base. The courage was gone and so was the bravado that came with splashing some of Dad's 'Lectric Shave on my face before suiting up that supposed wondrous day. The tears won this time and my career with the Sandymount Royals was over in two pitches.
I never went back to practice, but I was obligated to support my team thereby accomplishing the 'low bar' of support I had comitted to earlier.
There I was on the bleachers on the pursuant Saturday commanding my Royals nominally from the gallery when that first pitch was fouled off and found its way to my head once again. Fortunately the pain of the impact was quickly supplanted by the embarassment of the umpire's dash to my rescue asking, "Is that little girl alright?"
I guess it could have been worse... right?
