Saturday was my day. I guess everyone eventually has one. It was the first day of the rest of my life. It was the day that I, Taylor Jackson, nearly pitched my first perfect game for the GeorgeAnn Varsity Pirates, and the same day I learned I was adopted. Now those two things are separate and different in all kinds of ways, but to me, they’re the same. I guess because they got all blended together on that one day. My mom made pancakes for breakfast and then, after we finished eating, right there at the kitchen table, they sprang it on me. Like a wet cat. Oh, by the way son, our only child, we’ve been meaning to tell you…you’re adopted!
No warnings, no hints. Just bam, right out of the blue. Like a high ball lost in the sun one minute and in your glove the next. Bam! There it is! You’re adopted!
I was light headed. But, I was already light headed. Coach Mitchell called the night before to say that Sherman Forehand, our ace pitcher, had broken his arm and I would be starting the game the next day. I was the starting pitcher on the GeorgeAnn Junior Varsity baseball team and I had been called up. I was going to the show. The varsity. And now, I was also adopted. An adopted pitcher, about to pitch his first game on the varsity team. Seniors would be sitting in the dugout wondering; ‘Who does this kid think he is?’ I didn’t even know who I was.
.....That second pitch went by Rudy just as I knew it would. He turned and pounded the ground with his bat. Lawn chairs were pushed back and grandparents thrust themselves forward and onto their feet. Bailey gave me two fingers down, which I had already decided on even if I had to shake him off. We were practically reading each others minds. I found the stitches I wanted and released the ball at just the right time and my curve-ball went in fast and broke towards Rudy like a piece of flying artwork. I could read the disbelief on Rudy’s face as he stood there, frozen, even after the ball was in Bailey’s glove and the umpire had thrown out three fingers and then brought his forearm back against his body to throw out his thumb. One pitcher against another…there wasn’t a better feeling in the world. The bleachers erupted. The grandparent section stirred, all on their feet, as if the whole thing was too much to take in sitting down. I practically floated back to the dugout. Other players slapped me on the back on the way in and even Coach Mitchell gave me a nod as I ducked inside. Three up, three down didn’t even enter my mind. I’d just struck out Rudy Morgan. I’d struck him out with him standing flat-footed, watching my pitches come by. This time next year he’d be playing college ball. Rudy Morgan.
.....They say everything’s bigger in Texas and those raindrops seemed to prove the point. Tiny dust clouds erupted where they landed on the infield and then slick, lumpy clay began to form everywhere along the surface of the field. We played in rain, sleet and hail. Unless we saw lightning, we didn’t call games in our part of Texas. That was a part of our pride, to walk off the field at the end of a tough game, cleats singing out in unison on the catwalk back to the field house, with mud on our uniforms and maybe even a little blood trickling down some of our arms. When we won we whooped and hollered, kings of our province. When we lost we trudged on gallantly, proud to try and to be together in the trying. Parents, grandparents, friends and girlfriends gathered along the route, always encouraging, waiting for the end of showers and the reemergence of the players. Being a part of that walk, before and after each game, being a part of something bigger than yourself, and unless you’d made that walk yourself, you couldn’t even begin to understand it, was everything.
No warnings, no hints. Just bam, right out of the blue. Like a high ball lost in the sun one minute and in your glove the next. Bam! There it is! You’re adopted!
I was light headed. But, I was already light headed. Coach Mitchell called the night before to say that Sherman Forehand, our ace pitcher, had broken his arm and I would be starting the game the next day. I was the starting pitcher on the GeorgeAnn Junior Varsity baseball team and I had been called up. I was going to the show. The varsity. And now, I was also adopted. An adopted pitcher, about to pitch his first game on the varsity team. Seniors would be sitting in the dugout wondering; ‘Who does this kid think he is?’ I didn’t even know who I was.
.....That second pitch went by Rudy just as I knew it would. He turned and pounded the ground with his bat. Lawn chairs were pushed back and grandparents thrust themselves forward and onto their feet. Bailey gave me two fingers down, which I had already decided on even if I had to shake him off. We were practically reading each others minds. I found the stitches I wanted and released the ball at just the right time and my curve-ball went in fast and broke towards Rudy like a piece of flying artwork. I could read the disbelief on Rudy’s face as he stood there, frozen, even after the ball was in Bailey’s glove and the umpire had thrown out three fingers and then brought his forearm back against his body to throw out his thumb. One pitcher against another…there wasn’t a better feeling in the world. The bleachers erupted. The grandparent section stirred, all on their feet, as if the whole thing was too much to take in sitting down. I practically floated back to the dugout. Other players slapped me on the back on the way in and even Coach Mitchell gave me a nod as I ducked inside. Three up, three down didn’t even enter my mind. I’d just struck out Rudy Morgan. I’d struck him out with him standing flat-footed, watching my pitches come by. This time next year he’d be playing college ball. Rudy Morgan.
.....They say everything’s bigger in Texas and those raindrops seemed to prove the point. Tiny dust clouds erupted where they landed on the infield and then slick, lumpy clay began to form everywhere along the surface of the field. We played in rain, sleet and hail. Unless we saw lightning, we didn’t call games in our part of Texas. That was a part of our pride, to walk off the field at the end of a tough game, cleats singing out in unison on the catwalk back to the field house, with mud on our uniforms and maybe even a little blood trickling down some of our arms. When we won we whooped and hollered, kings of our province. When we lost we trudged on gallantly, proud to try and to be together in the trying. Parents, grandparents, friends and girlfriends gathered along the route, always encouraging, waiting for the end of showers and the reemergence of the players. Being a part of that walk, before and after each game, being a part of something bigger than yourself, and unless you’d made that walk yourself, you couldn’t even begin to understand it, was everything.
