Voices In My Mind: Baseball Dream

Once again, unannounced, the Voices in My Mind have engaged; robbing me of required sleep. They refused to release me, so there I was on the couch with MSNBC buzzing in the background and Daisy curled-up fast asleep at my feet, apparently without a care in the world. There is never any rhyme or reason as to the why or what seeks my attention. Meanwhile, the same scenario repeating itself and with each mental playback becoming more vivid and irritating; refusing to permit me the freedom to return to the sleep I so desperately desired.

In silence, I tossed and turned; mumbled and grumbled. Seeking to escape the noise only I could hear.

Without engaging in religion, asserting there is or is not a heaven with streets of gold or a hell and its lake of fire, I wish upon my antagonist the fate of spending whatever eternity that might exist, the job of full time, never-ending task of coaching little league baseball. Yes, so I am bouncing about and now obliged to share this story. If I do not, it will continue to haunt me.

Growing up I, from what I have been told, I was the perfect child. Rarely cried, could entertain myself for hours with a pad of paper and pencil, a box of blocks, throw in a deck of cards, engaged for days, never seemed in trouble of any kind, really, I admit I was THE ideal child.

I was compliant.

I was obedient.

I was docile.

I was the “perfect” child.

These personality characteristics or flaws, whether nature or nurture, stifled my being.

Spring of sixth grade, the school principal announced that the local Little League would register boys interested in playing baseball. At this point in my life, I had never been involved in any kind of organized sports program. I recall that somewhere around this time I went to the YMCA every Saturday where I did not learn how to swim, injured no one with the bow and arrow, or BB gun, learned how to remove multiple bottles of soda from the Soda Machine on a single dime, and got to meet Aunt Jemima. She wandered and chatted nonstop while we consumed pancakes covered with syrupy.

Here is where the story gets dark. I felt so intimidated by my parents that in order to ask permission to sign up for Little League; I wrote my mother a note. Basically, Dear Mom, yada, yada, yada, can I join the Little League and play baseball, yada, yada, yada? Sincerely, Michael.

Apparently, I felt so alarmed by making such a request, I literally signed the note I was going to give to my mother, seeking permission to play baseball. I expected the answer would be no.

Over the years, the Voices in My Mind replayed this story with gaps perhaps, but the key elements have never changed. The details remain the same and mental pictures are clear. I say this because, as I recall, she seemed surprised that her son would feel the need to write a formal request to join, in this case, the Little League. I can only wonder how she internalized this interaction.

She said yes. And that was her level of engagement, her participation in my Little League experience. She never came to any of my games, never!

My dad, on the other had helped get me registered and attended several of my initial practice sessions. But that was his level of engagement, his participation in my Little League experience. He never came to any of my games, never, okay rarely! And rarer still played catch after work.

Now we move on to why this story replays late at night when the house is quiet and the Voices in My Mind decide to hang out, to keep me awake, to make me angry, feeling robbed, cheated, conned, filled with regrets.

I know nothing about the coach, his name, what he looked like, why he wanted to coach, his family, likes or dislikes — zip. I suppose it is cruel on my part to hope that for all eternity; they assign him to coach Little League. But…

Okay, as I have freely noted in other stories, I was the little guy, small for my age, almost always the smallest child in class photos, and having never played in organized sports had questionable athletic skills, if any. The only notable skill was I could run faster that the bullies, which, if you are wondering, was a superb skill to possess.

I got myself to all my practices by hopping on my 24-inch Firestone bike, and I can only assume I was compliant at practice sessions following the coaches’ directions and peddled safely home. Then game day, I got myself dressed in my uniform and then to the baseball field, by hopping on my 24-inch Firestone bike, and I can only assume I was compliant at the game following the coaches’ directions and peddled safely home, where I recall my parents never inquired how the game went, did we win or lose? Did I play?

I was, and still am, left-handed and the coach informed me that the only position I could play was right field. Cool, that makes me special! With that knowledge, every game checked the lineup, and I got to start every game! In right field! Every game I trotted out to my position, turned around, cheered my teammates on, waiting for someone to hit the ball to right field. It never happened, not once in the entire season! So, without committing an error, trotted back to the bench.

Looking back, I realized how, at every game, scheduled to hit eighth in the lineup. So, being compliant, I waited for my turn to bat. Apparently, we were not an overly talented team because I never got to bat in the first inning! At this point in every game the coach, the adult in charge of this quiet, compliant, undersized wannabe, was told that he must let everyone play and was having another player replace me in right field.

The entire year I only played in the first inning, never had a ball hit my way, and never picked up a bat or stood at home plate, never. Sat on the bench and watched the entire game. Hopped on my bike, peddled home, and placed a perfectly clean uniform in the wash for the next game.

During weekly practice sessions I, with a few others, spent our time in the outfield shagging flies tossing them back toward the infield. Occasionally, we would lineup to take a few swings and on the last swing run to first base.

Cannot change the past, but yes, I have regrets, disappointments that keep me awake at night while the Voices in My Mind nag, nag, nag.

I suspect this person is long gone, but not forgotten. He has left a lasting memory, literally.