Leaning into the plate

 

Dad says I need to lean into the plate more.

He knows I’m scared of getting beamed like Billy Brett did last year.

But Dad wants to win so bad he doesn’t care if I get hurt, just as long as I get on base.

I try to get closer, but each time I do, Coach Jones stop play, comes over to me and screams in my faces asking me if I’m crazy.

This ain’t no big leagues, he tells me.

I want to tell him to talk to Dad

But I’m too scared to.

That’s not all Dad makes me do either.

When I almost but not quite caught a fly off the grass tops, Dad yelled at me when I confessed to the umpires that I didn’t.

Dad accused me of losing the game, even thought he scar against us was already 12 to one.

He claims our team could have come back.

Dad is always yelling at me to use my spikes.

By this he means that when I slide into a base I’m supposed to hurt the person catching the ball.

He says he wants to see blood

I tried it once after Dad screamed at me from the stands the whole time I stood on first based.

I never got over seeing the spikes of my shoes when they ripped across the face of the girl short stop.

People claim she’s still pretty, but I know better.

That’s why I don’t use my spikes any more.

Or lie when I almost catch a ball in the outfield,

Yet I do lean into the plate more, hoping one pitch might slip like it did with Billy and I might never have to hear my Dad screaming at me to get a hit.