When I wrote this post yesterday, it was going to build on Sticks and Stones, a post more “global” than “it’s all about me.” So I wrote this post, I read and re-read it, and considered whether to post it after all. It seems that this one really is all about me and all these years later has more emotional content than a man of my years should admit to, which is why I must post it after all.
I have bared my soul over the last two and a half months on this Blog – infidelities, sex one cut above anonymous, fantasies one would not discuss at a dinner party, but I realize that I have not touched on the most difficult of things: I was the kid picked last for sports. Hell, when we played softball in grade school I had my own position – deep, deep, centerfield. (I am happy to report they never made me actually leave the school yard.)
You may be wondering why after forty years I am raising this today. I have read on the Blogs and in the MSM (main stream media - I always wanted to try those initials) about the autistic kid who had a great day on the basketball court, and I admit I was moved. I then read Ben’s moment of glory and I admit I was jealous.
The problem with a story like that – a true Disney moment – is that it does not represent the typical reality. Now I am not against Disney movements – another deep secret is that I tear up when they score the goal or smack that homer in those “silly” movies. But most days in real life the “water boy” does not sink the shots and does not get carried off on his/hers teammates shoulders.
I can write about this now – not easily I am discovering – but somewhere I have a sixth grade year book with a well meant inscription: “To my favorite deep centerfielder.” The thing is that I kept that book hidden well into my twenties for fear of having to explain what a deep centerfielder was.
So my hat is off to this kid – truly a well deserved moment of glory – but my heart is with all of those other kids who will never make the shot. In celebrating him, let’s not forget the others.