In one of the enduring images from my early childhood, my dad's first baseman's glove hangs at an angle off my left hand, palm upturned. A flexible fabric bandage covers my right eye, hidden partially by plastic-framed glasses. I am standing in the front yard of the house my parents would sell a year later, as they parted ways in an amicable divorce. I feel like I remember the exact day the color photo was snapped, but I wasn't more than 4 years old at the time. Maybe I just remember loving the feel of my dad's glove, and the excitement of romping on the jungle gym next to the softball field where he played in a rec league.
With the too big glove, a cock-eyed baseball cap atop my head, and the eye patch, I look the bit of a misfit. And perhaps I was. After all, what coach would want a first baseman with her peripheral vision of the entire diamond cut off? The patch was an attempt by doctors to get the muscles in my left eye to strengthen by me using that eye exclusively for several hours each day. The hope was that the crossed, wandering eye would center itself with increased use.
But, by the time I took the field myself several years later as a Little Leaguer the patch had been discarded as ineffective and my crossed eye had been repaired by surgery. I turned out to be a versatile infielder, playing shortstop and second base the first two years, then the revered first base in my third and final year with Presidio Little League. Somewhere along the line I had seen a picture of my dad in high school, stretched long, meeting the hardball thrown from across the diamond, looking as professional as one of my favorite Major Leaguers, Steve Garvey. I aimed to be just like him, Dad that is, and it worked. We won the championship that year.
I love that Dad still has the photo displayed on a bookshelf because it's evidence, rather than just memory, of how long I have been smitten with baseball. In this Opening Week of the 2015 season, I count myself lucky for having co-workers who organized a Seattle Mariners watch party, and longtime high school friends who lit up their Facebook pages with gleeful posts about the start of a new era for the San Diego Padres. Some will argue baseball is no longer our national pastime, but I will continue to luxuriate in passing many hours watching, reading about, and talking with pals about the sport that helped a misfit grow into an athlete.
With the too big glove, a cock-eyed baseball cap atop my head, and the eye patch, I look the bit of a misfit. And perhaps I was. After all, what coach would want a first baseman with her peripheral vision of the entire diamond cut off? The patch was an attempt by doctors to get the muscles in my left eye to strengthen by me using that eye exclusively for several hours each day. The hope was that the crossed, wandering eye would center itself with increased use.
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| A similar pic to the one described |
I love that Dad still has the photo displayed on a bookshelf because it's evidence, rather than just memory, of how long I have been smitten with baseball. In this Opening Week of the 2015 season, I count myself lucky for having co-workers who organized a Seattle Mariners watch party, and longtime high school friends who lit up their Facebook pages with gleeful posts about the start of a new era for the San Diego Padres. Some will argue baseball is no longer our national pastime, but I will continue to luxuriate in passing many hours watching, reading about, and talking with pals about the sport that helped a misfit grow into an athlete.
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