My Dad and I, playing catch at 3
years of age. The ball soaring in the air just to fall down
at my feet. My friends and I playing baseball
down at the park in 3rd grade, enjoying the sun and activity.
My teammates and I playing recreational baseball
on a team in 5th grade; I loved that time we had together.

I, however, was never a good ball player: I didn’t swing
the bat right and I couldn’t throw the ball far.
I spent most of my games sitting behind the dugout fence,
still, however, cheering on my teammates.
As I grew older, I thought I was a failure.
People told me that and I believed them.
Their opinions consumed me.
I ran away from the sport I’d loved so much as a child.

And then, my sophomore year came;
a buddy of mine reintroduced me
to my long lost best friend from my childhood.
I fell in love with baseball again.
I still made mistakes, but I did not let them define me.
I let myself improve because of this.
I’d come to understand that what people
thought of me did not matter, but what I loved to do did; and I
needed to have that in my life.

As I, now in high school approach the field
that would host our final game of the year, the State Finals,
I remember those doubts that once invaded my head.
I remembered those people who told me I couldn’t do it.
They had fueled me and had ultimately brought me
to this game.
They all would be watching this game,
no longer doubting, but cheering me on.