by Rix Quinn
It’s a crisp March morning. I can’t wait to get to baseball camp. We nine-year-olds meet today to split into teams at the park’s recreation league.
There must be 50 guys out here at the park. A man holding a clipboard checks off each name as we sign in.
One of the older coaches separates us into three groups: batting, fielding, and pitching. Each of us will get a chance to demonstrate all three.
I first go to the pitcher group. We stand on the pitcher’s mound and look toward home plate. My first throw goes over the backstop. I adjust for distance, and my second throw bounces twice before it gets to the catcher. Pitching is not my gift.
Next, I go to the batting area, where a father stands patiently on the mound and lobs balls to the young hitters. One kid is great. Another keeps gripping the bat on the wrong end.
I get ten pitches. I swing and miss the first five. Then I make contact, and dribble a grounder that nearly reaches the pitcher. Then I tell the pitcher I’ve had enough.
The fielding group is my favorite. We boys stand out in the field, all wearing gloves about twice too big. We each field a combination of grounders and flies. Most of us did OK, and one kid just throws his glove at each grounder.
The coaches then divided us into five teams, and we spent a couple of months in competition. During that time, I learned important terms like bunt, hook slide, and homer.
There was only one minor injury, when a runner tripped over third base and fell on top of a melted ice cream cone.
At the end of the season, the coaches gave us a big banquet, and every kid got a little trophy that said “Baseball Star.”
In high school, I showed that trophy to a girl I wanted to date. She just laughed.
Would you like to write the story of your life, your experiences, your dreams? Here is a memoir company you might want to use: https://checkout.memorygram.com?sca_ref=6530088.7uKTOCraQU
