Battered Up www.femmefan.com
By Leslie Wake
I could feel them rolling their eyes, amused as if I were some kind of lunatic……
Their stares pulled at me like magnets. I turned around where the little leaguers
stood at the edge of my batting cage and glared hate rays at them. Inside my red
lipsticked stained mouth, I held back from saying, “hey punks, I might be old but
I’m not deaf.”
They made me realize that, I had been living a myth. It was as if old age had
suddenly shoved her face into mine, looking straight into my now near –sighted
eyes. When did post middle age infiltrate—no, extort my youth? Where was I
when all this started to happen? It’s not like I’m your garden type unathletic wuss.
No, I’ve always lived my life committed to exercise. I mean I still run up the stairs
two at a time.
But, I can no longer romanticize it—I AM freakin old. No more pretending that I
don’t subscribe to the AARP magazine and that I occasionally dine during the early
bird specials.
I turned my attention back to the pitching machine. The pitch was perfect. I had
the desire and I had the swing—but, I got nothing but air—over and over and over
again. My ears prickled as the kids started coaching me in their prepubescent
scratchy voices.
“Bend your knees, lady…watch the ball.”
“Hey, batter batter…swing…”
I put in another two tokens—12 pitches—and readjusted my helmet trying not to
think of the likelihood that I might get head lice.
I hated the sound, or rather, the unsound of not connecting.
Some young voice behind me yelled, “Pivot your back foot like you’re squishing a
big juicy bug .It’ll help you generate power. Get your hips into it.”
Another squeaky voice added: “See the pitch. Hit on the top half of the ball, while
another 10 year old said, “Try swinging earlier, you’re so close. All you gotta do is
squeeze the trigger.”
Yeah, against my helmeted head, I thought.
I had the will. I had the desire. But, I didn’t have the delivery.
I readjusted my stance and my sweaty, blistered hands around the base of the bat.
I gave the pitching machine my best competitive stare down as I heard a kid
behind me condescendingly take bets. Without turning around I already know that
it was that pudgy pixie faced blond boy who told me to pull the trigger.
I flexed my biceps. O.K., now my pride and ego were on the line. I was becoming
incredibly annoyed. There MUST be some gene inside me for hitting a little white
baseball.
Once again, the machine delivered. The velocity made me flinch. I had no idea if
this was a modest fastball, a change up, or a spitter. All I knew was that I was still
swinging like I was trapped inside a port-a-potty with a swarm of bees. I stood
crammed into a box face to inhuman face with a pitching machine, while a bunch
of giggly boys coached me from behind. I wondered if the daggers in my eyes
were as sharp as the baseball cleats on that smirked-pixie faced kid collecting
dollar bets.
I wanted to end their pity-party. I was not leaving until I hit the ball. And, bless
my poor optimistic heart. After the 97 th pitch, and 20 dollars poorer, and all that
coaching punctuated by their excessive hand gestures, I put my body into it. I
snapped my head, squinted my eyes, and said “bring it on,” under my breath. The
ball seemed to slow down. It was as if I was outside my body watching myself,
and WHAM I connected!
In a flash, it was all over. Now it didn’t matter that in this second half of my life a
few inches and a few pounds had crept up on me. Now it didn’t matter that my
eye hand coordination had been compromised in such Godzilla sizes…it obviously
just needed some re-setting.
I turned around with a broad smile and thumped my chest knowing that I had
garnered the respect of the smiling, cheering kids behind me.
And, you know what? I’m not ready to dismiss my physical prowess. In fact, I’m
going to update my resume and add under special talents: I can hit a 75mph fast
pitch.
By Leslie Wake
I could feel them rolling their eyes, amused as if I were some kind of lunatic……
Their stares pulled at me like magnets. I turned around where the little leaguers
stood at the edge of my batting cage and glared hate rays at them. Inside my red
lipsticked stained mouth, I held back from saying, “hey punks, I might be old but
I’m not deaf.”
They made me realize that, I had been living a myth. It was as if old age had
suddenly shoved her face into mine, looking straight into my now near –sighted
eyes. When did post middle age infiltrate—no, extort my youth? Where was I
when all this started to happen? It’s not like I’m your garden type unathletic wuss.
No, I’ve always lived my life committed to exercise. I mean I still run up the stairs
two at a time.
But, I can no longer romanticize it—I AM freakin old. No more pretending that I
don’t subscribe to the AARP magazine and that I occasionally dine during the early
bird specials.
I turned my attention back to the pitching machine. The pitch was perfect. I had
the desire and I had the swing—but, I got nothing but air—over and over and over
again. My ears prickled as the kids started coaching me in their prepubescent
scratchy voices.
“Bend your knees, lady…watch the ball.”
“Hey, batter batter…swing…”
I put in another two tokens—12 pitches—and readjusted my helmet trying not to
think of the likelihood that I might get head lice.
I hated the sound, or rather, the unsound of not connecting.
Some young voice behind me yelled, “Pivot your back foot like you’re squishing a
big juicy bug .It’ll help you generate power. Get your hips into it.”
Another squeaky voice added: “See the pitch. Hit on the top half of the ball, while
another 10 year old said, “Try swinging earlier, you’re so close. All you gotta do is
squeeze the trigger.”
Yeah, against my helmeted head, I thought.
I had the will. I had the desire. But, I didn’t have the delivery.
I readjusted my stance and my sweaty, blistered hands around the base of the bat.
I gave the pitching machine my best competitive stare down as I heard a kid
behind me condescendingly take bets. Without turning around I already know that
it was that pudgy pixie faced blond boy who told me to pull the trigger.
I flexed my biceps. O.K., now my pride and ego were on the line. I was becoming
incredibly annoyed. There MUST be some gene inside me for hitting a little white
baseball.
Once again, the machine delivered. The velocity made me flinch. I had no idea if
this was a modest fastball, a change up, or a spitter. All I knew was that I was still
swinging like I was trapped inside a port-a-potty with a swarm of bees. I stood
crammed into a box face to inhuman face with a pitching machine, while a bunch
of giggly boys coached me from behind. I wondered if the daggers in my eyes
were as sharp as the baseball cleats on that smirked-pixie faced kid collecting
dollar bets.
I wanted to end their pity-party. I was not leaving until I hit the ball. And, bless
my poor optimistic heart. After the 97 th pitch, and 20 dollars poorer, and all that
coaching punctuated by their excessive hand gestures, I put my body into it. I
snapped my head, squinted my eyes, and said “bring it on,” under my breath. The
ball seemed to slow down. It was as if I was outside my body watching myself,
and WHAM I connected!
In a flash, it was all over. Now it didn’t matter that in this second half of my life a
few inches and a few pounds had crept up on me. Now it didn’t matter that my
eye hand coordination had been compromised in such Godzilla sizes…it obviously
just needed some re-setting.
I turned around with a broad smile and thumped my chest knowing that I had
garnered the respect of the smiling, cheering kids behind me.
And, you know what? I’m not ready to dismiss my physical prowess. In fact, I’m
going to update my resume and add under special talents: I can hit a 75mph fast
pitch.
