Baseball

Bulging bubbles of pavement burst underneath her feet as she makes her way across the playground. The sun came down hard that summer afternoon at the corner Elementary school. The wired fence slowly bends over to show its defeat to the unbeatable heat. The uneven earth tilted the batting area to one side. There is no pitcher's mound just a chalked-written "X" to mark the spot. Bases are flat, worn-out mats seeming to become one with the melting concrete beneath it.

One bat. One ball. No grassy knoll. The game is Baseball. The year: 1990.

A bunch of 10-year old kids sit on the splintered, wooden bench chained against the batting cage, anxiously awaiting their turn to hit a home run. The young girl, wearing stone-washed jeans, a light blue shirt with a faded heart on the upper right corner walks beyond the crowd, hovering near the monkey bars dreading on being called up next.

A watcher, not a player, she prefers to dangle upside-down, the ends of her dark brown hair almost touching the sand, observing others play a sport she so desperately wishes she could understand well enough to play herself.

"Pitcher throws ball to batter. Batter hits ball with bat. The ball flies high. Bat is gently tossed to the ground. Batter runs to first base, to second base, to third base, to home. Score! (That is of course if no one manages to catch the ball in time to tag the batter out)," she thinks quietly.

Yet though she knows the mechanics of the game she never makes it passed “Strike 3!”

Sometimes the young girl would daydream of hitting the ball so far out that not even the boys who play this game religiously can run fast enough to catch it. Sweat beading down their faces trying to grab onto the force that pushes it farther and farther away from their grasp. The crowd cheers as she grazes pass each base, excited and out of breath, but as she almost touches home base...the teacher, rotund with an ash-brown, mushroom-shaped haircut and red lipstick on her coffee-stained teeth cackles for the next batter, snapping the poor girl back to reality.

A skinny, short kid with a dusty baseball cap, dark jeans, and a black t-shirt, struts up to the plate. He is one of the best players in the school and he knows it. His fingers grip the aluminum bat so tightly that his bone-white knuckles show through his charcoaled-colored skin. He tips his cap, bends his knees, squinting his eyes to gain better focus. The ball curves towards him. One swing and it is long gone! The kids all stood up, jaw-dropped in amazement as the ball disappears into the sky. The young girl flips off of the bars and dusts the sand off her knees, watching in envy as her dream slowly becomes his reality.

The teacher quickly kills the excitement, lecturing as if what had just taken place is a specific lesson plan rather than a fun-filled game of sports with unpredictable circumstance. She picks the bat off the floor and starts to explain how important it is not to let it fly out of control. The young girl slowly backs away and by doing so, gets called up next.

The kids know she can’t play well and begin nagging to have someone else go instead. The young girl agrees, insisting on sitting this one out. She has a bad feeling in her heart that she would do just the opposite of what is to be expected of her. She would strike out. . .again.

The teacher ignores the young girl’s plea and as if enjoying the power she has over them, argues that everyone has to play to get credit for the activity. Afterall, kids should want to participate in such an “easy” game.

The young girl imagines the teacher up at bat as the kids throw lots of baseballs her way.

Suddenly, the young girl finds herself at the worst case scenario: Bat in hand, kids booing. As the teacher calls for the pitcher to throw a fast ball, the young girl is caught off guard and nearly tumbles over.

“Strike 1,” the teacher screeches as the kids point fingers and laugh.

“You suck,” they holler as the young girl prepares for another failed attempt.

"I'll make this one a slow ball just to show you guys how bad she really is," teases the pitcher as he simply tosses the ball.

The young girl just keeps swinging miserably wishing someone would get in her way and give her the pure luxury of hitting them instead.

“Strike 2,” the teacher belches again, slapping her knee, causing an uproar of laughter from the surrounding classes.

The young girl starts to turn beet red. A hot tear rolls down her cheeks. She wipes them away leaving a smeared dirt mark on her face. This is her last attempt to at least hit the son of a bitch. She gets into the stance she observed just moments earlier and blocks out the bickering, the insults, the heartache. She clenches her small hands around this iron giant of a bat, bends her knees, squints her eyes, and waits for the inevitable.

Bat meets ball.

She hit it! Her eyes spring open and for a second she loses herself and forgets what to do. An eerie silence consumes the crowd. And then she hears, "Run!" She makes it to first, second...wait...something is not right. What happened to all the cheering? Why does she feel like she is the only one playing the game?

She stops somewhere in-between second and third base. Everyone is looking at someone else. There. Sitting on the splintered, wooden bench is a girl wearing a blue jogging suit, holding her mouth closed. Blood seeping through the gaps.

The young girl suddenly comes to and realizes she does not know what the hell she did with the bat! She recalls it in slow-motion to help her piece the puzzle together. "Oh my...," she whispers in disbelief when she sees the bloody bat near the other girl's feet. What appears to be little, white stones are scattered everywhere.

One girl screams. Another rushes to the nurse's office. The teacher grabs the young girl by the arm and drags her face to face with the startled girl. The other kids form a circle around them. The teacher demands the girl removes her hand from her mouth. The girl refuses at first, but in fear does as she is told. A mixture of blood and saliva pours out of the gaping hole.

These are not stones. These are her teeth.

The nurse comes running out with a towel and escorts the girl back into the school.

The teacher bends down, picks a bloody tooth up off the pavement and looks at the young girl with disappointing eyes.

"You did this," she said sternly.

THE TOOTH

The young girl stood motionless, staring blankly into the teacher’s cruel, beady eyes. She could see the jagged red lines zigzagging across the eyeballs as if it’s cutting right into her reflection. The teacher, tooth in hand, hovers over the young girl’s small stature as if preparing to swallow her whole.

“Wish it were your tooth…” mumbled the young girl.

“What did you say,” the teacher replied, cupping her hand over her ear.

The young girl wanted to scream at the top of her lungs, “This wasn’t my idea! I didn’t want to play because something bad might happen! This isn’t my fault, you stupid monster! Can you hear me now you fat cow?!”

And yet, even with her mouth open, nothing managed to escape it. She just bowed her head in shame, knowing that what she did is terrible but never intentional.

The teacher tosses the tooth back onto the pavement, creating an unnerving clatter against the rest of the broken pieces huddled at her feet. She dismisses the rest of her students to return back to the classroom and orders the poor girl to sit at the splintered, wooden bench…alone.

The sun blares down on the young girl, but she hardly feels its hot breath against her sweaty back.