Learning How to Hit

My whole little league career had been nothing but strikeout after strikeout. My days as a player were an exercise in frustration, left-field daydreams, and batting practice embarrassment. 

Dad, do you remember when I intentionally struck out and took off for 1st base? I misunderstood the rule about wild foul balls on a full count (it sounds like I still don't understand that rule) and believed I could finally get on base using a little-known loophole in the game.  I took three wild swings dropped the bat, and sprinted for first. On base at last! Then a walk of shame back to the dug out everyone yelling at me and laughing. 

Little league was just mediocrity and public humiliation until you taught me how to hit a fastball. Dad, you taught a weird stance, with my elbows high and the bat up and behind my shoulders, almost like I was waving a flag. The stance felt funny at first. But it worked! At first, you threw easy stuff while I built confidence. I'd swing and miss. I'd slice and hit weak grounders, but then I got it. 

Every night we'd go over the field. You pitched, and I hit. I couldn't believe it; the ball really flew. By the end of the week, I could hit well even when you threw really hard. The ball would fly off your hand faster than anything I'd ever seen in a little league game. I'd swing and hit it almost every time. 

The sharp crack of the ball and bat was an amazing sound for a flubber like me. The echoes of those clean hits still chime. I was hitting long flies by now, no limping grounders, high arcs into the outfield. A few even went over the fence. These hits would make me a legend. It was a miracle!  Just four nights of coaching, and you'd turned me around! 

I knew that one good hit in this weekend's game, and I'd be in the majors. I'd jump from the minors to the majors in one great stroke! In the majors, you got actual uniforms, not just a t-shirt and hat. It would happen because any kid on our team who could hit disappeared before the next game. Inevitably we'd see the new recruit (in full uniform) show up for a major league game.  Every day for a week, you took me to the field for batting practice. By the end of the week, I was sure I could hit anything the other guys would pitch me. Come game day, I was moving up! 

 The day before the game, I was filled with keen anticipation. I couldn't wait for Saturday. I didn't say anything to my friends about my new hitting abilities. My buddies wouldn't believe me anyway. I had to show 'em. 

That day we were playing kickball at recess. The pitcher was skipping the ball over the hot black asphalt. Kids were shouting for their favorite pitches. "Bounces! Baby Bounces, Right over the plate!" 

I was in the outfield, consigned to deep left. Suddenly someone kicked a high-fly ball. I heard the satisfying ka_thonk of a well-kicked ball. The ball soared above the playground, getting smaller and smaller in the sky.  It was dropping right at me! This ball was mine! I put my hands up, spreading all my fingers wide, anticipating the catch. The kickball plummeted down. The ball fell out of the sky and bounced off the tip of my ring finger. I heard a shrill boink followed by a subtle "pop."  

The ball came down on my outstretched fingers, like trying to spear the kickball instead of catching it. Yeow the pain. I grabbed at my right wrist, instinctively knowing I didn't want to touch my finger. Hugging the hand down against my belly, I doubled over in fear. It hurt; it hurt bad. Then I forced myself to lift my hand up and look at it. What I saw shocked me so bad I forgot the pain. 

My ring finger took a 90-degree left turn at the first knuckle folding grotesquely over my middle finger. The knuckle was swollen and already discolored. I figured it was broken for sure. By now, all my buddies were crowded about me. They gazed at the twisted wreck of my hand in stunned, appreciative silence. I drew a thick crowd of kids pushing in to look. My morbidly fascinated friends hustled me into the school. I held out my mangled hand; this irrefutable hall pass took me straight to Mrs. Jorgensen.

My 4th-grade teacher, Mrs. Jorgensen, was the toughest, strictest, scariest teacher ever. I spent the whole year in the fourth grade trying to avoid her gaze. I'd slouch rigid in my seat, doing my best not to fidget, hoping she'd forget I was alive. She had a voice that would crack across your brain like a bullwhip. Her voice left a bitter taste in its wake. 

Interrupting Mrs. Jorgensen's lunch,  I shoved my mangled digit in her face. crying, " Look!" I didn't do it to shock or annoy, I was scared and sure my finger was broken. Mrs. J. was the teacher; she'd know what to do. Her stern, wrinkled face changed. Her eyes widened as I waved my right-angled finger in her face. 

Then formidable Mrs. Jorgensen cracked. She screamed before the unmitigated horror of my hideously mangled finger and ran shrieking from the room. My pals rushed me to the nurse's office. Calls were made. Both my parents came and took me to the doctor's office. 

I watched the doctor inject pain killer into both sides of my knuckle. "Dislocated, not broken," he said. Dislocated? I mulled over this new word.  The doctor held the crooked finger, pulled gently, and it popped back into place. Now that the fear and pain had faded, I liked the sound of the word: Dislocated. They taped on a smooth metal splint, and I was sent home.

No hits for me. I missed my chance.

The baseball season was over before my finger healed. 

I never played in Little League again.