is baseball to blame?

for my hatred of baseball?

You, dear reader, I request that you act out in judgement of my question: Whose to blame for my hatred of baseball - me, or baseball?

Let’s scroll back to little Jimmy the nine year old baseball wannabe.

Er. Baseball player wannabe.

I had finished with the pathic folly of squirt. I finished my second year with the ability to throw the ball, catch, hit and occasionally keep my mouth shut.

I was like the frickin’ wayne Gretzky of baseball in my mind.

I was afraid of the ball - but that’s what happens when your dad first smashes your toth by mistake then smashes your mom’s face with a baseball by mistake.

Both occurrences were by mistake. There are witnesses who attest to this fact. I simply learned at a young age not to play catch with my dad because he threw with bad luck.

It was the first day of try outs for mosquito. Mosquitos suck but ‘Squirts’?

They made us play baseball as ‘squirts’.

Please, google the term.

Or rather don’t if you’re back at work or have any sense of decency whatsoever.

Right?

Baseball is looking pretty hostile eh?

Squirts, mosquitos… what’s next? Ass badgers? Flesh eating urethra worms?

The coach was being a coach in the early 80’s. He barked and smacked out line drives.

Woof! Out went a name.

Smack! Out went a line drive.

He wasn’t just a prick and he wasn’t merely hostile.

He was the kind of dude who says think fast after he punches you in the nuts kinda hostile.

Smack! Out went a line drive.

Woof! Out went my name…

A name?

No.

My name

Wait! What?

Everything slowed down. I saw it happening before I could recognize what was happening. I heard the ball go off his bat. I saw him make contact while looking at me. I saw the ball explode off his bat.

I had time to think: this isn’t happening. This can’t be happening. I see this thing coming and there’s no way I’m going to get out of the way of this motherfucker an it’s about to knock me the fuck up side of the head.

I had time to decide to pretend that it wasn’t happening before the ball hit my head.

While at the same time something else was going funny with time.

I didn’t have time to move.

How is it that during times of acute lived crisis we can see it coming from the moment we hear the crack of life’s bat but are surprised when it hits us?

How is it that we can see minute details of an event unfolding but are unable to react?

This is what baseball has done to me.

Who's at fault, me

or baseball?