The summer I was seven I joined our town’s Mighty Mite baseball league. I knew the basics of fielding and had practiced batting. During our first practice drill we played catch. I whipped that ball at the unsuspecting boy across from me, who twisted his body away to protect himself.
The coach ran over. “Who taught you to throw like that?”
I shrugged. “My mom.”
Evidently that wasn’t the answer he expected, but it was the truth. Mom and I played catch. She taught me about how my arm muscles worked, and how to have a good grip on the ball. We also played Hit the Bat, a 2-player version of baseball in the gulley in our yard. One player would pitch, and the other would bat. If you hit the ball, you had to lay down your bat and then run the bases. The pitcher fielded the ball and then rolled it to the bat. If the ball hit the bat while you were between bases, you were out, and you then switched roles.
My father and I occasionally went fishing, but it was my mother who served as my usual outdoor playmate and coach. Baseball (then softball), tobogganing, badminton, bike riding, and basketball – just a few of the things we did together. We even went skateboarding.
So yes, Mom taught me to throw a ball. The coach didn’t believe me. Women didn’t play baseball, right? I was branded a liar and spent some time on the bench. Not much time, though. I had that arm, and while most Mighty Mites couldn’t hit into the outfield, I was put out in left field just in case. I made a few plays too. The coach’s son played shortstop (don’t they always), and one time a kid hit a pop-up to shallow left field. The shortstop was back peddling and fell, but I had run in and easily caught the ball. The coach’s son was angry in spite of the out; he didn’t want to be shown up by a girl.
People who know me today are surprised that I have so many good memories that involve my mom. After all, there was so much violence, drunkenness and other poor behaviors. But isn’t there always?
Even in the most awful families there are times of love; even in the most loving families the human adults sometimes fall short. My human psyche is most comfortable when things fit neatly in a simply labeled box – in other words, I’m most often uncomfortable.
Healing from what happened to me in childhood has been a very difficult process, because I frequently try to stuff things in boxes that aren’t big enough to handle the whole truth. Parts of that truth hang over the edges and no amount of forcing them is going to work.
Tomorrow is Mom’s birthday – she would have been 76 years old. She passed away nearly two decades ago, not long after she cheered her beloved Tampa Bay Buccaneers to a Super Bowl win, with her family gathered around her for the most meaningful football party ever. Mom and I made peace before she died, and I was with her to hear her last words. I miss her.
For more about my the healing my mom and I experienced, check out my poem, “Done” at https://karenprive.com/done/
I love how your memories of mom show that she had real interest in you. She didn’t always send you away to amuse yourself, there were things she wanted to show you and she made sure you exelled at them. However and why she got that way, she was tough. And it served her well enough that she tried to pass that on.
My human psyche has a tendency to hang onto the difficult things, the ones that don’t fit into the box, but it always looks for a way to smooth out the rough edges. It cuts people slack, makes excuses for them, and forgives easily.
Both of us are trying to make sense of the senseless and trying to give ourselves what was missing. It’s a winding road and a convoluted journey. I’m so glad you are a part of mine!
Watch out Diane! I might ask you to be the next guest blogger. You express ideas here so eloquently. And I’m grateful to have you hanging out with me on my own journey.