So true confession: Growing up in a family of readers, travelers and museum lovers who although loved baseball as a spectator sport (go Oakland As!) made no time for athletics themselves, I have always had a love-hate relationship with organized sports. The competitiveness of it. That for every winning team there had to be a corresponding loser. And that in choosing players for teams, someone always had to be picked last (namely, the lil gal cowering in the back). When it came to softball, I loved, loved, loved being at bat ~ oh, that delicous crack! of sweet spot against ball! ~ and felt equal thrill running the bases (short legs be damned!). But catch an oncoming meteor heading straight toward my quivering mitt? And then throw it back with any modicum of elegance? Now that was another thing entirely. (I even chose the one university in the entire country ~ the University of California at Santa Cruz ~ that outright prohibited organized sports.) But now fast-forward to having a daughter who loves the game. And whats more, wants desperately to learn how to play. A daughter who needs a mom to practice with her and help her develop skills that her mom herself never had. And so today we found ourselves out on that dusty diamond, just she and I. Because more than anything, she wants to learn how to pitch. But what skills did I have to teach her? All I could offer was one teeny tiny bit of advice: Just concentrate on the spot where you want the ball to end up, I told her, lifting my bat, and let your body and mind do the rest. Because thats how were rigged up, isnt it? No matter what the odds, our body/mind wants so desperately to please us. Wants our vision to become a reality. And so she pitched. And pitched again. And each time she concentrated a little bit harder, envisioned a little more intensely, believed in herself just a wee more fervently. Until. Until: The Perfect Pitch. And yes, it was beautiful. For both of us.
Posted on: Sat, 17 May 2014 22:35:26 +0000
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