Damage Control

And onward I go trying to compose this essay for my black belt scrapbook. I am a writer -- I did not expect this to be difficult. But today I wrote this:

My parents love to tell the story about my escapades as a Little League softballer in the fifth grade. According to their tale, which elicits copious laughter every time, I would spend most of the game sort of twirling around in the outfield, looking up at the sky and singing to myself, sometimes not so softly. I think they mean to use this charming anecdote to highlight my sensitive, artistic nature, and to illustrate that well-known truth that we all have our strengths, and mine was obviously never athletics. I don't blame them. I know their intentions are good. And I guess to someone who buys into the innocence of that image -- the simplicity of an eleven-year-old too distracted by the beauty around her to notice something like a softball game in which she is supposed to be participating -- that story would be cute and funny.

But I was there. And it's not funny to me because I know the truth. At the time I only knew the details of the situation: 1) I loved softball and wanted desperately to play (my parents had not made me join the team); 2) I was awkward and gangly and could not run fast -- I was a 5'6" eleven-year-old trying to reconcile a pair of giraffe-like legs and a double-barrel chest with a uniform that was clearly never intended for such beasts; and 3)at that point in my life, I had already suffered so much ridicule about my physical appearance at the hands of my "peers" that I was terrified of anything that would draw more attention. Now I know that those moments on the field -- those silly, childish moments that make such good stories -- defined me in ways I'm still trying to understand and reverse.

So there I was, literally and metaphorically out in left field, trying desperately to drown out the words in my head that had me pleading with God not to let a ball come my way. I would do anything, I promised. Anything if He would just keep me safe from that humiliation (obviously just making me a good player was not an option). It was damage control, just as the coaches' decision to make me an outfielder was. I looked around, trying to focus on the trees or the sky. Sometimes I tried really hard to listen to the "chatter" of the other players supporting our pitcher. Sometimes I sang softly to myself.

Damage control.


And now I'm beginning to wonder just how far back this black belt journey is going to take me. And just how much longer it will go on.