Jul 2014
I’m not a good catcher.
When I was younger, my father never took me to the park like all the other kids’ dads did. I hated the sun, and he knew that—he also liked to work more than he liked to be around me. “Time is money,” he’d always say as he laced up the shiny, black Italian loafers he’d just imported. “Why don’t you go read a book?” I learned how to hate the sun when I read James and the Giant Peach and that stupid peach looked like a replica of a sun that swallowed James whole.
I didn’t eat many peaches after that, nor did I go outside often.
In school, I was chosen last to play on just about every team sport—even basketball, despite my height towering over many of my classmates. During the spring, we played baseball. I remember cowering at first base because my father never taught me how to catch a ball, since he never took me to the park. When the batter stood up at the plate, I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. The moment the cracking sound indicated that the ball had indeed been hit by the bat, my limbs shook in fear and I hid behind the worn and torn baseball mitt.
"It’s yours!" I heard the voice of my classmate shout from across the field and I knew that out of the four plates, I was the one he was yelling at. "Catch it!" I peeked an eye open and I watched in awe as the white leather ball came straight towards me like comet rushing to crash into the Earth; it blocked the sun from my eyes and out of instinct, I raised my arms to the heavens as if I was asking God to catch the ball for me.
It landed in my mitt, but like I said—I was never taught how to catch a ball. It rolled off of my brown leather surface and touched the sand. It reminded me of the time my cousin had tossed me my mother’s gold-rimmed plate from across the kitchen while we were doing the dishes after dinner.
The ball didn’t break, but I still heard the same shattering sound of the gold-rimmed plate crushing to pieces at the impact of the white linoleum floor.
When I was younger, my father never took me to the park like all the other kids’ dads did. I hated the sun, and he knew that—he also liked to work more than he liked to be around me. “Time is money,” he’d always say as he laced up the shiny, black Italian loafers he’d just imported. “Why don’t you go read a book?” I learned how to hate the sun when I read James and the Giant Peach and that stupid peach looked like a replica of a sun that swallowed James whole.
I didn’t eat many peaches after that, nor did I go outside often.
In school, I was chosen last to play on just about every team sport—even basketball, despite my height towering over many of my classmates. During the spring, we played baseball. I remember cowering at first base because my father never taught me how to catch a ball, since he never took me to the park. When the batter stood up at the plate, I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. The moment the cracking sound indicated that the ball had indeed been hit by the bat, my limbs shook in fear and I hid behind the worn and torn baseball mitt.
"It’s yours!" I heard the voice of my classmate shout from across the field and I knew that out of the four plates, I was the one he was yelling at. "Catch it!" I peeked an eye open and I watched in awe as the white leather ball came straight towards me like comet rushing to crash into the Earth; it blocked the sun from my eyes and out of instinct, I raised my arms to the heavens as if I was asking God to catch the ball for me.
It landed in my mitt, but like I said—I was never taught how to catch a ball. It rolled off of my brown leather surface and touched the sand. It reminded me of the time my cousin had tossed me my mother’s gold-rimmed plate from across the kitchen while we were doing the dishes after dinner.
The ball didn’t break, but I still heard the same shattering sound of the gold-rimmed plate crushing to pieces at the impact of the white linoleum floor.
