Baseball…one of my many passions. I love the game. I love the men that play it. Mix it in with my other obsessions (musical theatre, literature, Glee) and it seems a bit out-of-place.
Naturally, there is a story behind my first love.
I grew up on a small farm in Northeast Missouri. We had cows, horses, chickens, the whole kit-n-caboodle. During the humid, Midwest summer, my brothers and I would play ball in our front yard. Well, I would play if they let me. They are 7 and 5 years older than I am so the buggy little sister sometimes got left out.
Our front yard was big enough for an infield. The swing set was first base. A patch of dirt served as second. Mom’s flower filled tire was third. Down a rather steep but short hill was a dirt road. Across that, a corn field. That was the outfield. The lilac bush and cherry tree were the foul posts.
I was always allowed to bat first. One brother pitched the ball. The other stood on the edge of the hill behind second. They never thought I would hit it over their head. Most of the time, I didn’t. But every once in a while, I would knock the ball into the corn field. When the corn was high, it was an automatic home run. When it wasn’t, it was a race. regardless, I ran the bases as fast as I could.
Even though they just let me score.
My brothers taught me how to hit. My dad taught me how to throw and field. Those games in the front yard taught me how to love the game.