One day I nailed a rusty basketball hoop to a tree and was taking shots with my half empty basketball when my step dad came home from work.
“Hey dad, wanna play basketball with me?”
“Maybe later”
Which, I knew, meant no.
If an interest of mine didn’t coincide with his, he had no time for it.
So I was excited when I was old enough for Little League because my step dad loved baseball. He played in high school and on his work’s softball league. TV baseball games were the soundtrack of summer in our house.
And he did take an interest.
He got me a glove and instructed me how to oil it.
Instructions from him came in a formal, proper, staccato tone – I guess to show how simple and clear the task was, in order to contrast with how stupid I was.
“I’m providing you with this glove and I expect you to properly maintain it. Care for it, and it, will care for you.”
The one other adult I remember playing catch with was my grandpa. Every throw from him felt like him saying: You are worth my time. And each catch by me felt like a soul affirming: ‘atta boy.
Playing catch with my step dad was a series of stressful, high stakes, drills that felt as though they exposed the narrow limits of what I could do physically and the shallowness of my courage.
Every throw from him was a grenade.
When I caught it he said nothing.
“You don’t pet a dog on the head for being a good dog.”
…he once explained to me.
The catches that hurt my hand, felt like punches from him.
When I dropped it he yelled.
I had trouble with ground balls. After a couple unexpected bounces met with my shins, I became afraid of the ball. I resorting to jumping out of the ground ball’s path and he yelled at me.
“If you don’t stop moving I’m going to nail your feet to the ground!”
I was not old enough, and he was not kind enough, for me to understand his hyperbole. My imagination vividly described me what those sharp nails would felt like splitting their way between the bones, tendons, and muscles in my feet. I believed he would do it.
I stood in place as the ground ball came to me. And it worked. I caught them. What a confusing message for an eight year old: success through threat of bodily harm.
After one of my games, we went right from the car into the yard.
“Get over here. I want to show you something. When you’re out in the field you’re flat footed.”
“What’s that?”
His voice rises.
“It means you’re standing out there with your feet flat on the ground, not ready for the ball. You should be on the balls of your feet.”
I have no idea what he means. Aren’t feet naturally flat? There are balls in my feet? I know asking will get me yelled at, so I take my best guess and widen my stance.
“Boy, what did I just tell you? Get up off you heels. Like this.”
I lift my heels, but not knowing the purpose, I stand straight up like I’m looking over a fence.
“Now squat down like you’re getting ready for the ball.”
I bend forward keeping my eyes available like a bow from Japan.
“No, God damn it. Crouch down like this.”
He tries to adjust me. I don’t know what he’s doing so I can’t help, I just try to be as pliable as possible so he won’t think I’m resisting. But it comes across as apathy.
“Cooperate, God damn it!”
I feel like a mannequin. He pushes my back downward, widens my stance, and taps the back of my knee.
“And bend your knees.”
I bend them like I’m about to sit in a chair,
“No, not like that, like you’re ready for the ball.”
I bend further l like I’m about to sit on the ground.
“No! …”
I arbitrarily adjust into one stance after another, each one not what he’s looking for. I’m in a loop, like a metal duck at the fair getting hit with the BB gun sending it back and forth.
He just keeps yelling, saying the same thing.
I’m standing in my yard, in my uniform, and face red from crying, wishing he hadn’t taken an interest.