THE LAST BALLGAME

“That was the best game we’ve ever had!” my brother, Frank said as he draped his arm around my shoulders. He couldn’t have been any happier and I couldn’t have agreed more as I stood on my toes, lifted my head, and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. After taking off my glove and wedging it under my left arm, I rubbed the palms of my hands on the front of my pants to dry off the dampness the leather produced. Together, we walked off the field remembering how it all began.

I was six years old and didn’t have many friends. Although I had my first-grade schoolmates, there weren’t many girls on my street. The older I became, the lonelier I grew. My brother, being only two years older, felt very protective of his little sister and often let me tag along with him and his friends.

Through the years, Frank took me under his wing more and more. By the time I turned nine, I learned to relax around the boys as they taught me the easy way to climb over railed fences, squeeze through gaps in wooden fences made by missing slats and climb the tallest mountain of winter snow created by the passing snowplows. But the most fun I had was when I was allowed to go to the park and play ball with the boys.

Yes, I was a typical Tomboy. With my blonde curls pulled back on a tight ponytail, I seemed to fit in with my brother’s friends more each day. Yet, instinctively, we both knew that someday, all that would change. For the time being, however, Frank included me in everything and found he enjoyed my company completely. He realized I was more than a sister - I was also his friend.

While Frank wanted to make me feel as though I actually played the game, in reality, I only played a small part of the outfield - the part where a baseball seldom soared after connecting with the bat. Frank knew that one carelessly caught ball or one that bounces out of the glove, could either blacken an eye or break a nose. He felt I was still too young to actively participate but still didn’t want me to feel ignored. After all, while I was his friend, I was also a girl!

One particular Saturday afternoon that I fondly recall was when I was eleven years old. I was invited by my brother to play baseball again. Being thirteen and wiser than his years, he knew this could be the last time I might even agree to play such a game – with the boys. After all, I’d be turning twelve by the end of the month. Other girls had moved into the neighborhood, and I was quickly becoming friends with them. As he watched me cross the field, he realized that I walked differently. The Tomboy gait was gone and in its place was a more girlish stride. It didn’t go unnoticed by him that his friends also noticed.

I took my position in Left Field, just like I’d done many times before. But this time, there was one difference. Frank, as Captain of the team, asked me to move in a few feet putting the official Left Fielder behind me, now. Frank thought I was old enough to actually play the game without getting hurt and wanted to give me a chance at participating. I had no idea that he had already spoke to his Left Fiedler who eagerly agreed about the change of positions.

Gleefully, I positioned my stance and readied myself as the batter approached the plate.

The game progressed without any excitement and the next batter for the opposing team swung the bat and eventually walked and took his place on First Base. The second batter struck out. The next batter bunted the ball directly into Frank’s glove.

The Umpire called, “Strike One.” I held my breath while the batter swung again and breathed out another sigh of disappointment at the second called strike. I knew that one more strike and the inning would be over. One more missed chance to be a real team player.

I adjusted my glove on my left hand and brushed some dirt from my pants with my right. I kicked my heels in the dirt trying to get a more comfortable feel in my sneakers. Then I wiped the sweat from my brow with the back of my glove smearing dirt and grime on the forehead of my already sweaty face. Spreading my feet slightly apart, I, now, placed my hands on my bent knees and positioned my body in a bent-over, semi-squat and waited. My pale blue eyes now glued on the boy standing at the plate.

Ball One. The next swing, however, connected and sent the ball flying high – right in the direction of Left Field.

Frank held his breath as he watched me take off running as if my life depended on catching that ball. I felt like it did.

I focused all my attention on it as it soared in the air, losing myself in concentration. I ran to meet it, feet pounding the ground, eyes trained on the hard rubber orb. As the ball began its descent, still running, I raised my glove and dove in the air to meet the pop fly.

As I crashed to the ground, the dirt clouded up around me. Frank’s worried eyes never left the cloud of dust while his breath caught in his throat. In a split second, he beamed with pride and breathed a huge sigh of relief as he saw me raise my glove to show the others that I still had possession of the ball.

Although our team eventually lost the game, to me, the score meant nothing. I played my heart out and that’s all the mattered. With pride at having the only girl on their team, a girl who could actually play the game, my teammates carried me to home plate on their shoulders. Frank found it difficult to wipe the toothy grin from his face and I laughed almost hysterically as the boys beneath my tried desperately not to drop me on the ground.

Frank’s intuition, however, was right. That was my last game. The following weekend I attended a slumber party with my new friends – girl friends. We giggled as we tried new hairstyles, dabbled with makeup, and spoke of the possibility of getting old enough to date or even go steady. As our rock and roll records blasted through the hi-fi speakers, we experimented with dance steps.

When I arrived home the next afternoon, I found Frank sitting at the kitchen table, glass of milk in hand and a plate of home-made biscuits in front of him. “Hi, Sis, want some?”

I took a glass from the cupboard, filled it with milk and grabbed a biscuit. “So, how was the party?” he asked a bit solemnly.

“It was great!” I bubbled. “Those girls are so much fun. We…,” I stopped and saw the look on my brother’s face. “Hey, what’s the matter? You look like you lost your best friend?”

“I … you’re growing up. You don’t need me anymore. Yeah, I guess I do feel a little like I lost my best friend.”

“Oh Frank!”

Trying not to let Frank see my own sorrow, I lowered my eyes and squeezed his hand. When our eyes met again, my eyes were misted with held back tears. Quietly, with my mature, pre-teen wisdom, I told him how I felt.

“Frank, you’ll always be my best friend. Just because we’re gonna grow up, doesn’t mean we’ll stop being close. I still expect you to be around to protect me against the bullies in the neighborhood, to make me laugh when I feel sad and listen to me when I have a problem. Who else would I turn to when I need a friend?”

My mind raced to find a way to break my brother’s sorrowful mood. I wanted him to laugh – laugh like he always did – like he did when we were younger - much younger.

I rose from my chair, walked to the sink to rinse my glass. As I turned to face him, I smiled and said in a jovial way, “I’ll need you to screen my boyfriends and make sure they’ll take good care of me and beat them up if they don’t.”

Frank’s head snapped up so quickly, I thought he’d get dizzy. My smile grew.

“What? You want me to what?” His eyes were opened as wide as saucers in disbelief, but a smile began to creep along the sides of his mouth. “You want me to screen your boyfriends?”

“Well, yeah, can you imagine that? I bring a guy home and he has to meet you instead of dad. You’ll scare the heck out of him.”

Frank laughed at the thought. The more he thought about it, the harder he laughed - and so did I. He bit a big piece of one of the biscuits and swallowed it down with a large mouthful of milk. I was surprised he didn’t choke because he was still laughing as he ate.

I leaned down and kissed the top of his head. “I’m going to take a shower. Don’t eat all the biscuits.”

As I turned to walk away, I looked back and said delightfully, “Hey, that really was some game last week, huh?”

Frank looked back and I could see he was still smiling happily. “Yeah, that was the best game we’ve ever had!”