When I was about eight years old, my mother would force me to play catch with her every day. Id see her coming up the stairs with the ball and gloves, and panic would grip my heart. I didnt like playing catch with my mother. For one thing, I had no interest in sports, and for another, I was afraid of being hit by the ball. My mother chided me mercilessly for this fear, and explained why it was important for me to learn how to play catch, “When youre grown up, youre going to have to be able to play catch with your friends. Thats what grownups do. If youre at a party, and a game gets going, you cant be afraid of the ball.” So we would go outside, put on our gloves, and my mother would fling balls at me as fast and aggressively as possible. It was all I could do to catch them, and I spent most of the time digging through the bushes, looking for throws that Id missed. She would yell at me to “hustle.” I tried as hard as I could to catch the balls and hustle, but I was never quite fast enough for her liking. One day, when my mother was in a particularly foul mood, she hit me in the head with the baseball and knocked me unconscious. I didnt know what had happened. One minute I was outside trying to get through my daily torture session, the next minute, I was lying on the couch with my mother and father leaning over me, concerned expressions on their faces. There was an ice-bag on my head and, looking in the mirror, I saw that I had a black eye. My very first. My mother was guilty and apologetic, but nonetheless, admonished me for my fear of the ball, “Im sorry Michael, I didnt meant to hit you. But if you hadnt been afraid of the ball you would have caught it. Youre such a scardy-cat.” After getting hit, I was never forced to endure the ritual again. Can you guess if I enjoy playing catch with my friends today?
Posted on: Sun, 01 Jun 2014 15:45:43 +0000
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