Why I hate baseball

Men throw the first pitch and yell at the children on the field

Leaders don’t play baseball.

They throw the first pitch, and watch the children play.

Then they go off to play their own power games.

I remember that bleak and damp fall afternoon my new stepfather Michael came to watch me on the field of bygone dreams.

I missed some swings, but Michael was dropping more balls than the game of life could count.

He made an indellible first impression on our neighbors, as he sat in the stands with them and made himself a little too comfortable.

I could see the major league spectacle from the outfield.

He berated me between swigs of Coors and coughs from Marlboro Red smoke misting through the barren trees, indifferent to his toxic breeze.

I could feel at that moment that my days were numbered like my jersey:

Lifeless and limited to live out its season in an inevitable battle-to-the-death of innocence.

I didn’t know it yet, but the at the end of the game was when the sport of adult life began.

The sport of limitless options to choose one’s destiny, or to play the victim who gets a conciliatory ice cream at the end of the game.

I could play by the rules of the game rigged by the adults who were in charge of me, but not in charge of themselves.

Or I could create my own rules to live by.

I knew that I wasn’t going to be able to swing the bat hard enough to break the back of my enemy.

I didn’t know it yet…

But I did have a backbone that could break the back of their rules.

I didn’t need to worry about not catching and deflecting their every insult.

All I had to worry about was catching my soul.

All I had to do was walk of their field.

At 10 years of age, I had Big league Choices to consider.

How to deal with Michael?

How to protect my mother?

I would have to find my solace in left field, where the adults forgot about me, and where I could ponder what to do next.

How was I going to engage in the Sport of Life?

Don’t compromise. Seek 𝗵𝗶𝗴𝗵𝗲𝗿 𝘁𝗿𝘂𝘁𝗵.
 
Love,
Roman