Batter Up!

Batter Up!

The tension rises as Dad playfully gives his finest competitive glare from atop the chalked pitcher’s mound.  I center the heavy bat on my shoulder to prepare to let it loose against the ball, hopefully direct hit into the neighbor's yard.  I smile smugly as my father pitches the ball and I watch as my bat connects with it.  Crack.  Off the ball goes, direct drive into midfield.  Dad warns Mom, who stands, unmoving, shaking in fear of my hard hit.

“Karen!  Don’t just stand there,” smiles Dad, hoping the encouragement would help.  Unfortunately not.  Then in laughter, I race around the chalk bases with ease.  Mom scrambles to find the ball, which thankfully disappears into the thick bushes that seem to cushion our field from the unprotected house windows.  As I round second base, my small feet pounding the pavement, Mom makes a sloppy throw to Dad.  He calmly waits for the perfect moment to strike when I round third and make the tense sprint for home base.  Dad used to play this type of baseball when he was younger, although, in those days all he had to hit the ball with was his hand.  He had years of experience and on the other hand, I was a small girl of eight.  With his long legs and speed, tagging me out would be a simple feat.  Although, you can’t get that competitive with your own children.  As I near home plate, Dad makes his move and tries to block my path.  I swerve around him and pass over home plate.  I smile as the thrill of victory seeps into my conscious mind.  Karina expresses her victory thrill.

“We won, Lena!  We Won!”  I remain silent.  Mom smiles at Dad, for they both know he could have easily tagged me out.  My sweet sister embraces me to reward me on my contribution to our victory against the mighty adults.

Mom hollers my name from up the hill by our old house and I am jolted out of my flashback.  My mind returns to the present day.  Now as a teenager, such simple games no longer have a pleasing effect on me, but this memory does.  I look down at where my feet have taken me.  Perhaps another time.  Even though the chalk outlines of the bases have faded, they will always be there in my mind.  I put my arms up behind my head, supporting a bat that is not there.  I follow through with the swing and seem to watch that home run hit fly over into the bushes.