POW! 2 seconds. 2 slow, incredibly painful seconds was all it took to grind my thumb into a purple, mangled, mess. Two more seconds was all it took in the next hour to nearly give me a concussion.

Never. Never again would I ever play another season of baseball. Not because my “terrible” injury had stopped me but because I was too scared. Too scared to keep doing the thing I had practiced for my whole life. Too scared to do the thing I loved. Too scared to keep playing baseball. That decision of never was one I am to proud to go back on, and the stupidest thing I’ve ever done. ____________________________________________________________________________

My fingers closed. I could feel the coldness of the metal surge up my right arm as the feeling rushed towards my brain as if to alert me to use the past lifetime of training I had gotten as I walked up for the first pitch of the season. I swung the baseball bat over my shoulder and swaggered over to the plate.

I’ve got this, I thought, arrogantly. I hope Canada has been practicing their catching skills. I put on the batting helmet and bent my knees. Eyes on the ball. I thought.

Then, without warning, without even stopping to aim, The pitcher yanked back his arm and chucked a 75 mph pitch straight at me.  Automatically I jerked my bat up to protect myself, but the pitch was too inside. The ball created a thumb sandwich with my thumb in the middle. It grinded my finger into the bat and finally thought it had done enough, and dropped to the dirty field.

    I let tears streak down my face as my mom and dad charged over to me to temporarily take me out of the game. I looked down at the purple, grinded mess formally known as my right thumb.

____________________________________________________________________________

    Two innings later, I’m ready. Ready to play again. Ready again to show that stupid pitcher what I’m made of. One ball. It narrowly misses my head. That was close, I thought. Two ball. Way outside, I chuckle to myself. The pitcher chucked the next ball. Oh crud, I thought. POW! The ball smacked me right in the back of the head and bounced of my shoulder.

    A lot of things were going through my head but the thought on the top of my head was, “WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU!?” I wondered angrily aloud. I heard a snigger from the pitcher’s mound. “YOU PUNK!!” I screamed at his nerve. Then I curled up into a ball and started to cry. I was overwhelmed. Overwhelmed that this pitcher hit me twice. Overwhelmed that this kids coach hasn’t switched pitchers yet. Overwhelmed that I was being such a baby about the whole thing. I never wanted to be overwhelmed by things like this again. I decided to stop playing baseball that day.

____________________________________________________________________________

My dad always loved baseball. For 7 years it was something we were close about. That’s why I put hours of practice in. Because all I wanted was for him to be proud of me. After the first game, I was determined to get better. I asked him to randomly chuck tennis balls at me so I could practice dodging, I hit ball after ball into the neighbor's yard, and I caught every ball he threw, all for his approval.

____________________________________________________________________________

The day of the next game finally arrived. The coach kept coming up to me and saying, “You got hit twice in the last game Max,” he said through his thick blond mustache that muffled his words. “The chances of you getting hit again are pretty slim.”

“Yeah,” I told him. “I’ve been practicing.”

____________________________________________________________________________

My inning as third baseman flew by. Before I knew it, it was my next at bat. I slung the bat onto my shoulder and stepped nervously up to the plate. The pitcher wound up his arm and chucked the ball at me. Way inside, I thought. I stepped out of the way just in time. The ball flew past my former location as the catcher dived towards its trajectory course. He picked it out of mid air like an apple from a tree.

“BALL ONE!!” the umpire cried to the birds as his head yanked upwards.

The pitcher retrieved the ball and wound up again. Paralyzed with fear, I lightly tapped the ball towards the enemy dugout.

“FOUL!!” the umpire screamed once more as his head returned to the forward position.

The pitcher picked up and aimed his weapon of choice past home plate. As he wound up, I remembered my past 7 years of baseball. 2 years old with my dad. Tap! The ball rolled off of the end of my little bat. T-ball. Roll, roll, roll. The ball one again rolled into the outfield. The year before. WA-POW!! Right over the fence! The practice I had just hours before and my dad’s look of pride. Then, the last game. Curled up in a heap on the ground, crying. NO!! I thought. I swung my bat at the last memory, but my bat didn’t hit the memory. It hit something smaller and more round.

The ball rolled towards the dugout. The umpire looked upward and inhaled, about to yell FOUL!! again, but he didn't. The ball was, instead of going out, staying just inside the faded white line. The whole field stopped as if on a television screen that someone had paused. No one did anything until one of my teammates screamed, “RUN MAX, RUN!!”

The whole field was brought back to life. The third baseman dived for the ball, still rolling just in front of the in bounds line. The first baseman was holding up his mit yelling, “I’M OPEN!! I’M OPEN!!”

I was charging towards first base like a deer not daring to look back as the other kids cheered me on, and then, it stopped. There was a thud of shoes hitting leather, and the field was stopped abruptly again, but not for long. My team and coaches started cheering and my dad was beaming from ear to ear. Then I looked down and I saw it. My foot on first base. I had made it.

“I’m proud of you Max,” my dad said softly after the game. “You did really well.”

“I know dad,” I told him. “I know.”

____________________________________________________________________________

    We ended up losing our season even though I practiced hard, but good things came out of that season, oh yes they did. Even though I was true to my promise and didn’t play baseball again, I realized something important. They always say that practice makes perfect or some version of that but I know that it’s not always true. I practiced really hard but didn’t win the season, or come anywhere close. It took me two years to realize it, but I let fear stop me from doing the thing I love, and I knew for a fact that I wouldn’t let that happen again.