When I was five my parents signed me up for baseball. Boy, was I bad at it! My position was left fielder, which is where they put the scrawny boys who would do more harm than good anywhere else. On the field I was easily distracted, often paying more attention to the grass beneath me than the players around me. Off the field I was insecure. Afraid to change my shirt in front of the other boys who seemed to have a camaraderie and a confidence I didn’t.

 

One Floridian spring gameday, a ball made its way toward me in the outfield. I chased it down for 10 seconds too long, and thus decided to follow the new play that our coach had taught us during practice the week before. With the ball secured in my glove, I lifted my arms and shouted “Time!” as in Time out! to the people of the field. I thought I was a hero. But as the opposing batter continued to run through second base and then third, I scanned the field for reassurance. I noticed my coach taking off his hat and shaking his head in a private moment of disappointment, the same way my dad did when he caught me dancing through the aisles of Home Depot. I looked to the stands. Several parents were laughing, and it didn’t take long to realize the source of their amusement was me. Is this not exactly what I was supposed to do? My arms were still in the air. I stood frozen and embarrassed, completely unaware of what I got wrong. Through my head echoed the mantra of my most familiar inner voice: There’s something wrong with me.

 

If my field game was weak, my batting game was weaker. My fear of the ball made me lousy on the plate. My batting strategy was simply to close my eyes as the ball approached, swing, and see what happened. Usually what happened ended with the words “You’re out!” spat into my left ear by a man much larger than me. Occasionally, if the pitcher’s errors outweighed my own, I was permitted to walk to first base, even though we both knew I didn’t deserve to. Each step felt like getting away with murder.

 

The following spring was my first and only season in the kid pitch league. It was the final inning of our final game, and I was up to bat. I approached the plate already embarrassed because I hadn’t hit a single ball all year and everyone knew it. As I got into position, I performed the standard peacocking that I picked up from all the other boys. Digging a tiny divot into the dirt with my foot and twirling the bat with my wrists to show that I was powerful and in control. Taylor Bindy, a popular boy in my grade, was pitching for the opposing team. He was short, firm, and precise. As he wound his arm back, we locked eyes. With a subtle squint I tried to wordlessly communicate a plea for solidarity. Please go easy on me. He flung the ball.

 

With closed eyes, I swang for the Gods. Mid-swing, a jarring sensation jolted electricity through my hands. My head rattled inside my helmet. What the heck? I opened my eyes to see the pawns of the field moving in reaction to what I had done. Had I finally, for the first time in my life, actually hit a baseball? Uh oh, I thought, trying to remember what my body was supposed to do next. Run!

 

The coach awarded me the game ball that day. The whole team clapped in my honor. It was a kind gesture, for which I will forever remain appreciative. But in the moment I was humiliated. The only thing worse than being an awful baseball player was being acknowledged for it.

 

Meanwhile, behind the closed doors of my Mee Maw’s bedroom, my pedestrian life took a turn for the best when I came across a sacred talisman that would ultimately shape the course of history forever: the Spice World movie. It was everything baseball wasn’t. A spectacle of colors, fashion, choreography, and femininity. Every day for weeks I rewound the VHS and watched it again and again, dancing on the bed with my fist clenched into a microphone. I loved the music, the drama, the scene where the male backup dancers turned around to flash their bare butts. Which outfit do I want to wear today, I’d say to myself, playing a game of Spice Girls pretend — the little Gucci dress or the little Gucci dress? In the end, I’d inevitably opt for the little Gucci dress.

 

One day, mid-solo performance, Mee Maw barged into her bedroom and ejected the movie from the VHS player. “No more.” she said calmly. I remember feeling confused. “But why?” I asked. “Because I said so,” she retorted. And that was the end of that.

 

Left to my own devices, I sat a few days later in Mee Maw’s formal living room, playing with her silver and golden chess set, when something peculiar caught my eye in the corner of the room. It was my sacred talisman, the Spice World movie, sitting atop the tallest china cabinet in the room. I walked over and stared up at the lifeless VHS. It felt so far away, as if reaching it required me to scale a skyscraper. Mee Maw must’ve placed it there intentionally, so she could be sure I’d never reunite with it again, I thought. But why? As I stood gazing up, I got the sense that I was being punished. That boys weren’t supposed to dance with their fists clenched into microphones. That playing games of Spice Girls pretend was one of the worst things I could do. There’s something wrong with me, I thought, and thus began to believe. It would take me years, decades even, to finally remember, or perhaps to know for the first time, that the words of that voice weren’t true.

 

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A few things I’m thankful for:

- Reuniting with Tess and Kait :)

- Seeing a night sky full of stars

- Laughter

 

 

Pop culture things I’m thinking about:

- Omar Apollo album is excellent and emotional.

- This man is my new favorite IG follow.

 

 

A random journal entry:

3.28.23

rather than wishing for something else

i want to make the most out of what is

so that i may be more fully myself

and live a deeper, fuller existence

 

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Thanks for reading :) Talk again soon.