Personal Narrative: The Game Of Baseball

I attended my first Astros game at the age of nine. The popcorn scented air paired with the roaring of fans drove me to fall in love with the game of baseball. I learned of the bases, pitches and catches in minutes and immediately planned my own life to follow baseball trail. For months I begged my mother to place me in a little league. She was reluctant at first and impossible to convince when told the price of little league fees. My mother was able to eventually scrape the money together and at last, I was signed up for my first season of baseball. Hoping to give me a tactical advantage, she placed me on a team exclusively for children under the age of eight. I was completely ignorant as to why I was so much taller than the other kids, as well as their remarks about their new teammate.

Though I practiced with professional dedication, I received amateur results. My arm never developed into the fine-tuned throwing machine that the other children had; and hours spent in the batting cages amounted to a pair of clammy palms, unable to properly grip a bat. My teammates took notice of every mistake and openly voiced their criticisms. It was evident that my skills would never win over their respects and I was desperate of finding an alternative means of doing so. I thought I had found my opportunity when introduced to a game these boys described as wall ball. The object of the game was simply to throw a ball against the wall and attempt to catch it as it bounced off. If the ball is to touch somebody without being caught, the player must go up to the wall and wait as another player threw a baseball at their backs. Aware of my inability to catch a ball, the boys invited me to play as a brutal form of humiliation. I willingly volunteered, believing this to be my chance to make a friend. It took seven speed balls and a cracked vertebrae to realize that my teammates held no intentions of accepting me into their