Swing Away

I stood at home plate, watching the pitcher take the rubber. The count was two balls and two strikes. A cold sweat began to roll down my cheek. I gripped the bat a little tighter, hoping to find an outlet for my anxiety. The pitcher broke into his windup. Where is he going to pitch the ball? I thought nervously. Will it be low and away? Will it be up and in? Will it hit me?
The ball came careening through the air.
“Swing!” my coach screamed.
“Strike three!” The ball had gone right down the middle of the plate. But the bat was still on my shoulder.
It was a familiar scene. I stood still after watching a perfect pitch whiz by me. I would always find myself treading back to the dugout in dejection, thinking about the opportunity that I had just let go by. And I would always take a seat on the bench and wait for my coach to approach me.
“Why didn’t you swing?” He would ask.
“I’m not sure,” I would always reply, shaking my head.
“Don’t hold back, Adam, just swing!”
“I know, I know.”
I struggled during games, but my performance during batting practice made me look like an all-star. I stood with confidence as a coach would toss pitches to the perfect location. I could expect each pitch to be perfect, and I would never let a ball reach the catcher’s mitt. Right field, left field, left field bleachers – I would shower the ballpark with long line drives. I knew that the coach was working with me, giving me pitches that I could clobber. But I collapsed in the face of an unpredictable and competitive opponent, unable to summon my batting practice prowess.

* * *

It was 7:34 A.M. on the first day of our move from the middle school to the high school. I sat in a room full of strangers. As I remained silent, the others talked and laughed, enjoying the final moments before the teacher began class. I felt awkward as I kept to myself, but I didn’t know what to say to them. I had spent years nurturing my own friendships from elementary school and middle school. I hoped that my friends from Bethany and Woodbridge would remain in most of my classes, but this one seemed to be overrun by students from Orange. How could I open up to these tight-knit friends without seeming like an outsider? Stumped, I settled on waiting for the teacher to arrive.
“Hey,” said a voice from behind. I waited for a boisterous conversation to begin between the people sitting behind me. The seconds passed, but I heard nothing.
“Hello?” I turned around, surprised to find that the girl was looking directly at me. “I was talking to you, ya know….”
Before I could respond, the teacher rifled through the door. I turned around and opened my notes as she began the class.

* * *

“Strike one!” I watched another ball pass through the middle of the strike zone. It was as if an artist planted a still-life statue of my batting stance in the batter’s box before each of my at bats.
“Swing!” I heard my coach’s voice scream from the bench. It was becoming an increasingly common command to me, but it seemed easier said than done.
“Strike two!” Another perfect pitch popped in the catcher’s mitt.
“Time!” my coach yelled. He trotted out of the dugout and met me near the batting circle.
“You are going to swing at this pitch,” he told me directly. “No matter what.”
“What if it’s a ball?” I questioned. “I don’t know where he’s gonna throw it.”
“I don’t care,” he replied. “Swing.”
He walked back to the dugout, leaving the word to echo in my mind. “Swing.” I became tense as I stepped into the batter’s box and took my stance, but my coach’s message rang in my ears. I had no choice but to swing away. As the ball zoomed towards the plate, I uncoiled my hips and brought the bat across the strike zone, just hoping to make contact.
PING! I looked towards the outfield to see the ball headed towards the left-center field gap. Surprised for a moment, I quickly collected myself and ran towards first base. In a matter of seconds, I was standing on second with a double.
I remained standing on the base for a few moments, still in shock over my hit. I had swung my hardest, but I didn’t expect anything to come of my effort. I was hoping only to put the ball in play, and I was rewarded with an extra base hit. I looked back towards my coach with pride.
“You can’t do that unless you swing!” he screamed, smiling.

* * *

It was 7:34 A.M. on the second day of our move from the middle school to the high school. I sat in a room full of strangers. The scene was no different than it had been the previous day. I watched as my classmates talked with each other, but remained silent in my timidity.
I thought back to the girl who sat behind me. I shuddered at the awkwardness with which our last exchange had ended. I wanted to be friendly with her, to gain a friend in this foreign environment of high school. However, I didn’t know what kind of reaction to anticipate from her after the previous day.
Swing!
When I heard the order rise from within my mind, I began to entertain a new train of thought. Why not be friendly? I asked myself. The situation between us was unquestionably awkward, but was it worth it to allow the opportunity at friendship to pass by? I could not know what to expect from her response, but if I failed to even attempt to create a connection, I could never hope for the growth of a friendship. Swing away, I thought to myself. I took a deep breath and turned around in my seat.
“Hey,” I said shyly.
She smiled. “Hey,” she said back.
You can’t do that unless you swing! I heard my coach say from the back of my mind.