A few years ago, I took a writing class at the University of Southern Maine in an effort to get my creative juices flowing. In the class, I focused a lot on writing about myself and various events and circumstances in my life.
Since I don’t want me or this blog to become solely defined as strictly about parenting and babies, I thought I would start trying to post a little bit more with things that will give you some insight into who I am. And, what better way to start than to share this piece I wrote in that class – one of my favorites. And, just for the record, I freaking love my sister! 🙂
“One, two, three.”
“One, two, three.”
“One, two, three…. Four! Yes! No, wait three.”
As I stood in the field, hands on my knees and studying the ground intently, I knew there had to be a four leaf clover there, somewhere. The sun was blaring, birds were chirping and there was just a faint sound of passing cars in the distance. But, I blocked out every sound, natural or man-made. I was in the zone. I mean, there had to be hundreds with three leaves, and it was just a matter of time before my luck hit and I stumbled upon my first ever, real life four-leaf clover. I was nine; this would have been a big deal.
“Hey, Mick, come on!” I heard off in the distance, snapping me out of my clover trance. “What are you doing, picking daisies?” He laughed.
I looked up and skimmed the field to find that everyone else was gone. All eight of them. The inning was over and, like the cheese, I stood alone. How embarrassing.
“Oh crap,” I thought, as I could feel my blood starting to heat up, inching up my neck, through my cheeks, and all over my face.
I heard the wave of snickers and hisses beginning to erupt from the crowd around me as I scurried quickly out of the outfield, through the dirt of the infield, and into the dug out. I wanted to bury my head into my softball mitt and keep it there for the rest of my life.
My teammates were giggling as I entered the dug out. As I took my seat on the bench, where I no doubt would remain for the rest of the game, my sister approached me to (I hoped) give me a little bit of sisterly comfort and to tell me that it was fine – it wasn’t a big deal. She was, after all, a year older and wiser. For a split second, I was glad she was there.
But, had I forgotten that my sister lived and breathed softball? She was only ten, but she was the best, most feared player on the field. And to her, it wasn’t just a game. She always took every game seriously, like this game, on this field, was her Super Bowl… and I had just missed the final field goal. She looked at me with disgust, and rolled her eyes.
“You’re an idiot,” she said. I could feel the tears swelling up. I hated softball. I hated four-leaf clovers. I hated my sister.