The "perfect" swing

I can’t believe the past eight years have led me to this point. 

I still remember my first day at practice, like it was yesterday. I was only 7 years old, an anxious little girl playing with all the boys. But the coach was always encouraging me. 

“It’s so nice to finally have a girl on the team again,” he would say. “The girls are usually my favourite,” he’d whisper, with a cheeky smile and a wink. “Don’t let the boys intimidate you, baseball is a girls’ sport as much as it’s a boys’ sport.” He always tried to include me, make the boys respect me, start the training earlier with me, so I could catch up to the boys’ skill level. He wouldn’t let me fall behind, so I could stay in the team. 

A loud bang against the door of my locker room snaps me back into reality. I really have no time left. I look around me, weighing my options. Do I stay and hide? Or just bite the bullet and run into the pitch? He knows I’m in there, even if I don’t make a sound, so is there even a point in hiding? “ALEX, come on,” my coach yelled through the doors. “You need to stop being so anxious, this is what you want, and you know it!” 

What I want? It’s true, I’ve never missed a training session. Not one. In EIGHT years. I’ve always been determined to make it, by all means necessary. But is this really what I want? Or is it him trying to push me into wanting what he wants? If this really was what I wanted, why is my heart racing and my head spinning? Why is my entire body filled with adrenalin? Why is every muscle in my body telling me to run? If this really was what I wanted, why do I hate every second of it?

I catch a glimpse of my bag. My bat is sticking out of it, I just have to take it and do it. This is my only chance. It’s what I’ve been doing for years, this is what I’ve been training for for years, so what’s stopping me now? Just take the bat, remember your form and DO it. 

“Keep your shoulders loose and give it a good swing,” he used to say, “your muscles need to relax, put all your strength into the end of your swing, when you hit the ball. Don’t waste it before.” His hands were tightly around mine. He showed me proper grip and technique to hit the ball. We’d go through the movements over and over again. “Just a soft motion, like this. Now you do it.” He’d watch me copy everything I was shown. With his arms around my waist, he’d correct my posture, he’d guide me to my “perfect swing”, as he used to say. How many times we had to repeat that, how many times he’d have to correct me, because I just never seemed to get it right. 

“ALEX!” Another kick against the door. “Listen, I understand you’re hesitant,” there’s a hint of desperation in his voice, “but you’ve always enjoyed it. I’ve been your coach for how many years? I KNOW YOU. I KNOW you want this; you always have. I trust you; do you trust me? Open the DOOR.” I hear a soft thud against the door, from what I’m assuming is him leaning his head against it. I glance from the door to my bag. Is this really what I want? I’ll just have to push through.  

As I’m reaching out to grab the bat, I only now notice how hard I’m shaking. I’m trying to get a proper grip on the handle, but it’s much harder than I anticipated. My hands are cold and clammy, and it feels like all the blood in my body is rushed to my head, not leaving enough for any circulation in my hands. I try not to tense up, to relax my body and my shoulders. This is what HE taught me after all. 

“Breathe in and breathe out, Alex. Don’t panic. Just swing and hit and you’ll be fine,” and with that he’d give me a little slap on the butt and push me out into the field. “And no backtalk.” Like I would’ve ever dared to talk back, to say no. 

“You’ll be fine.” Will I? Will I be fine? Who is he to know? Has he ever tried to make sure I was fine? Did he really ever care about me, or did he care about the “victory”. The achievement. Another trophy to call his. As long as he got his way, it didn’t matter how everyone else felt. Not my predecessors, especially not me. I feel the anger rise up in me, pulsing through my veins. Breathe in, breathe out. I have to do this. He wants it his way, he’ll get it his way.  

I turn around, my back facing the door he’s knocking on and I unlock the door opposite to it, facing the pitch and I run out, knowing full well he will hear it and follow me. Fear overcomes me but I force myself to keep running, bat tightly in my hands. I look around in desperation, scanning the field, hoping maybe after all there is an escape, but I know there is no running away from this. I can’t tell if the lights are actually blinding or if it’s just the adrenaline pumping through my veins, blurring my vision.  

As I reach the pitch, I turn around to face him. He still looks the same to me as he did eight years ago. But he’s not the same man, is he? He’s walking towards me, slowly, calm. I can see his mouth moving, but I can’t make out what he’s saying. All I hear is ringing in my ears.  

Doubt overcomes me. I try to focus, to remember everything that has happened. Everything he has done. 

“Just swing and hit and you’ll be fine. Just swing and hit and you’ll be fine.” The memory of this moment is echoing through my head. I can almost hear his voice in my mind, almost feel his hands on my body. “You’ll be fine,” he would say. This is just how people show they care about each other.” He’d ignore my tears as he held me down. If this was caring for me, why did it feel like he was ripping me apart? In reality, I was just another trophy to him; those cups I won on the pitch, he’d lift them high in triumph just as he'd pick up me whenever he wanted to. 

He’s almost reached me, his face is relaxed, he’s smiling. He doesn’t understand the severity of the situation. He still thinks he has everything under control. 

“Just swing and hit and you’ll be fine.” 

I put all my strength into the end of it, just like he taught me.  

The moment I hear the sound of his skull cracking echo through the empty stadium I know that I’ve finally gotten the hang of the “perfect” swing.