Indiana Dew Narrative

Freshman year came. I tried out for a team that was located in Indiana this time, called Indiana Dew (after Mountain Dew, no less.) I didn’t want to play on Chi-Town anymore because I would have to move up to the 16U division while my younger teammates were still in 14U. The thought of joining a new Chi-Town team terrified me and I wished desperately that I was born in 1993 instead of 1992 (my birthday is December 19, so I was only 12 days short of the deadline.) I used to joke to my mom that we should have forged my birthdate on my birth certificate so I could still play with the same team. The Indiana Dew coaches played favorites and I often sat the bench, even though I was just as capable as the girls out on the field. I didn’t

I liked my coach, I was playing with girls I knew from school and starting to become better friends with them. I was catcher the whole season, playing every game and I only struck out once. I felt a little better about softball though I was starting to run low on fumes. I dreaded going back to the Dew once school was over. I used to beg my parents to let me quit the team. They could see how miserable I was and for being the kind of crazy parents they were, they heavily considered letting me. But I stuck it out for the rest of the season, sitting away from the girls on the benches and during breaks in-between games because I had officially given up. I didn’t have to convince my parents to not make me try out for the Dew the next season. They had seen that coming a mile away and my dad looked up different teams in the Northwest Indiana area without me having to say a word to him about it. He found out about a team called Velocity that was based in Highland. After an intense four hour tryout, we got the call that day saying that they wanted me to play on their team. I was excited again; I thought maybe it would be like it was on Chi-Town. While these girls were friendlier, it turned out to be the same old politics. The same girls played while I was benched constantly. I didn’t get to show my skills that often, which was primarily batting. Even when I asked the coaches what I needed to improve, they weren’t

They had spent thousands of dollars and hours of their time driving me to and from games and practices. They were my biggest supporters and I had dropped this bombshell on them seemingly out of nowhere even though I hadn’t felt a love for the game since I was fourteen. My dad took me for one final batting lesson with Tom, hopping he could convince me. And ironically enough, it was the best lesson I ever had. I hit line drive after line drive and Tom kept asking, “Why do you want to give this up, Cassie?” I had no answer for him at the time, mostly because I was coerced into going to the lesson to begin with. I was being stubborn, having already explained myself to my parents. Or at least what I felt like they could take. That last softball sits in my closet as a constant reminder of what I spent thirteen years of my life doing. Sometimes I pick it up and feel the familiar ridges beneath my fingertips. I line up with the stitches in the right way, holding the ball with only four fingers while my pinky lay limp to the side. I flick my wrist up, throwing the ball up into the air and watching as it comes back down, clapping in my palms. As soon as I’m done, I place it right back in its place in my closet. It’s a source to keep me busy if I’m bored. It’s just an object to me now; something that reminds me of the pastime I spent thirteen years doing. But it doesn’t bring any sort of animosity from me. I think a part of me