Joy Luck Club Mono.

“You’ve got to get mad at the ball! Step into it and slam it. Pretend it’s someone you hate. Pretend it’s your idiot of an old coach! I don’t care, just pound it!” he ranted.

I furtively rolled my eyes at him and leaned over on my bat for a little while, panting. How tired I was of his constant prodding and torment. If my father wanted baseball in his life so badly, he should have joined the Seniors League down at Hoyt Park himself. I was not going to stand for another summer of this abuse. And I never did.

I can clearly remember the purpose of my practicing those couple weeks. The very next day was the Little League All Star tournament, for which I had been selected. I was lucky to have been chosen, because each team was allowed one All Star pick and an alternate.

Smiling, I pictured what would lie between the threads of my first pitch. My Dad, my team, and the face of doubt. For once, I planned to prove myself to myself.

I sat in the dugout, a little shaken by the size of the crowd. There had to be at least five-hundred spectators out there, watching and waiting. In two batters, every eye would be trained on big number 22, Nash.

My weakness had disappeared in the shadow of my power. For the first time, I was proud to be me.

“Phil, you know you’re good. You know you can do it. All you’ve ever wanted to do was prove yourself to everyone else. To please your Dad, or give your mom something to gossip about. Stop it now. Your talent is yours alone, use it. The rest will come later,” I told myself. And my own words of encouragement would carry me to third base in a swing.

Some topics in this essay:
League Star, Philip Nash”, Triple Probably, Blake Rob, Arthur Hill, Hoyt Park, Club Narrative, hard run, pretend it’s,