The Wanderers- Court

I used to play baseball. It was one of those things- you did it because it was the fall and it was baseball and your dad used to play. It was 8th grade, they didn't have a pitcher for the team and they made me learn. I think they figured I was reliable. I got kind of good, too. When I threw the ball, it went where I wanted it to go. I wasn't one of those messy pitchers, with the bounces and the out of control fly-aways that make a catcher swear under his breath and go running. It wasn't anything amazing, I'm just telling you, but I thought it was okay and the coaches would stand together sometimes and stare at me. I pretended not to notice...but I did notice.

Then in high school I went out for the team because i hated basketball and to be honest... I didn't want to go home after school. It felt better...not to be home. You can forget about a lot when you're out running around and pretending to be so important, with your stats and bending the bill of your baseball cap and rubbing dirt into your hands so the ball won't slip. It wasn't something I thought about much, but now it seems like one of those effortless times, a good time that you don't notice until after. I guess there's always an after.

And then one day...well, it was in a game. Not one I was worried about, I mean... not one we, or the coaches or whatever...well we didn't think we'd lose. We didn't lose. I mean...well, okay, I hit a kid. It was the 4th inning and everything was fine and then my foot slipped a little on the mound right when I was releasing...and he was turning into the pitch, this sort of fat kid, and the ball hit him on the shoulder. I don't know...it couldn't have hurt that much, it wasn't like anyone was pointing a speed gun at me or anything because I was just that good, so I don't even know. But it doesn't matter. Do you understand? The game and the kid and why it happened and if it hurt, that stuff doesn't matter. I finished the game and told my coach I had too much homework. I didn't play again. I shut down, I didn't play, and that's it. That's all. It was fine. I didn't play ever again.

But...it was because of the hit. I kept hearing the sound it made--like a clean thwump against his back, that meaty part of his shoulder. And his eyes went a little wide, just for a second. And it was because of me. I was afraid...I thought I might... no. I was just afraid I would hit someone again. Maybe not the next game or whatever, not soon enough that someone would notice, but it might happen. I was afraid I would hit someone. And that I would do it on purpose.

No one would have noticed, they don't see those things in me, and I'm good at it. At being this person. But I kept hearing the sound the ball made when it hit him. And...and I liked it.

So I walked away, fuck, of course I did. I'm not some renegade baseball assasin. But do you know what I mean? I was fucking terrified of that feeling. Of hurting someone and being glad. Being glad I was on that end. Being glad that the pain wasn't ON me, wasn't INSIDE me. Fuck, what would you have done?

If anyone asks, it was the homework. I just...I make myself remember that I didn't do it again. I DIDN'T. When I think about it. Which...well, I don't think about it. But you asked about the worst in me.