Japanse New-Girl Monkey Network
Soft
Were you a tomboy? I was. Still am, really. Saturday was the company picnic, and we played softball. It's been a long time since I played softball, but I could still hit pretty decently...
...Feet together, keep that elbow up, don't choke up too much on the bat, and keep your eye on the ball. I know this game. I've known it since I was six or seven years old, when my dad would take me out into the yard and practice with me, patiently teaching me all the things I needed to know. Wait for a good pitch. The snap of the throw. Don't be afraid of a ball coming toward you, just hold up your glove and catch it. Now, in high school, in dread P.E. where I have to change clothes in front of all these other girls with curves and why are they doing their hair right before PE, me with just slim girlish limbs, tiny bumps on my chest, but at least when I get out there and play, I don't whine and complain and break my nails.
I'm up at bat, I know what to do. I practice a swing or two, wrists rolling over as the bat glides across that invisible even plane. Look out at the pitcher. Choke with anger as all those idiot boys in the outfield, half of them hispanic and full of machismo, move in up to the baseline. They don't see someone who's been practicing this game since they were old enough to pick up a bat. They don't see hours of throwing the ball at the garage door and stooping to scoop it up, stinging fingers that caught a hard throw, the bloody noses when I made a mistake and the ball hit me in the face. They just see a thin girl with bumps on her chest, an intruder on their game, so they move in to catch my wimpy little bunt and throw me out, and I can sit back on the bench where I belong. I watch the pitch come toward me and anger is coiling up in my stomach; my muscles coiling up as I twist back for the swing, step, snap, my bat making solid contact with the ball, my anger like rocket fuel, shooting that white soft sphere away over everyone's head. Home run.
A grim satisfaction, a triumphant smile is plastered on my face as I run the bases, those idiot boys scrambling after the ball, having to run even further than if they'd just stayed where they belonged, in the outfield. I stomp on home plate, the period at the end of the sentence saying, "I will not be patronized."
I never hit a home run again that semester, but neither did the boys ever move in on me when I was up at bat...
...Ten years later, playing softball again, and it doesn't have to be a contest anymore, I've proven myself already, I can stand up straight. It's just a game, it's fun and easy, and still no one moves in when I'm up at bat.
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