THE PITCH
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 2023
The summer I was 15,
I obsessed about the Red Sox.
I’d been a Boston fan
for several years,
but ‘69 was different.
I had to have surgery
on my knee;
I’d hurt it playing basketball
in a Catholic high school
A senior and I,
a lowly sophomore,
were the two best players
on the team.
She had a scholarship
to UConn,
the only school nearby
that gave girls athletic scholarships
pre-Title IX.
The surgery ended my
basketball days;
had Title IX been in place,
I would’ve kept at it,
no matter what.
After several days in the hospital,
I was released,
getting home in time
to turn on the radio
to the first Rec Sox game
of the season.
That was the summer
when I wanted to pitch for the Red Sox.
So many kids
had major-league aspirations,
but only boys could follow them.
Every time the Red Sox played,
I listened on my radio
or watched on TV,
wishing I could
someday pitch.
I tried to think of ways
I could play ball.
But nothing I thought of
would have worked.
I envisioned myself
going to try outs,
being allowed to throw,
since no one thought
a girl
could pitch,
then proving I could do it.
That summer,
my brother and I
walked to the nearby
Little League fields,
where he had me,
his big sister,
throw the ball for him.
“You’d make a great pitcher,”
he told me after one pitching session.
He always believed in me.
“You’d be better than Yastrzemski,”
he said.
I didn’t have the heart to tell him
that Yaz didn’t pitch.
We moved to Florida a few years later.
All we had there
was spring training
until the Marlins came along,
but they were in Miami.
When the Rays came to St. Pete,
I became a Rays fan.
You have to root for the home team.
“You like baseball? What teams to you root for?”
“The Rays, the Red Sox, and whoever’s
playing the Yankees.”
Yankees fans’d roll their eyes,
but they got it.
Along the way,
a movie for us “girls” –
“A League of Their Own,”
about women playing ball.
One day, just before I turned 60,
I stood in line at the
customer service booth at Publix,
behind a mom and 10-year-old daughter
getting ready for her soft-ball game.
An older woman – late 80s, turned,
talked to the pair.
“I played years ago,”
she said in a strong voice.
“Ever hear of the All American Girls League?
I was pitcher for the Rockford Peaches.”
She was my instant hero.
Early in the season,
one of the local TV stations
worked something out
with the local team –
a party, of sorts.
One person from each decade of life
would face a pitcher,
get a chance to hit,
round the bases,
if they did.
Me,
in my late 60s,
got picked for my decade.
When my turn came,
I headed for home plate,
and chatted with
the manager,
ump,
pitcher,
and more.
54 years of
wanting to play
with the boys of summer,
making it the kids of summer.
I pick the bat I want to use,
approach the plate.
54 years of dreams,
of Yaz,
of the Conigliaro brothers –
first Tony and
then Billy –
54 years of remembering photos
of Tony after he’d been
beaned by a ptich,
then coming back
later,
but never able to play
as he had,
always shy about
wild pitches –
54 years of remembering
Wade Boggs,
who finished his career
with the Rays,
remembering when he
joined the 3000 club,
running the bases,
arm pumping a cheer,
54 years of hearing about
the curse of the Babe,
of Ted Williams,
of wanting to be able to
have female names
in with the greats,
the Conigliaros,
Big Papi,
Carl Crawford,
Price,
and the All-American Girls League.
I wait,
watching the pitcher,
who’s been instructed
to take it easy.
54 years of
waiting for the wind up,
to hit a home run
worthy of playing the game.
“Ready?”
he calls,
as he was instructed
for the fans.
I nod.
And he pitches.
Home run,
some day for all of us girls.
This is part of a book titled Working Class Poems which will soon be looking for a publisher.
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