Of softball, my arch-nemesis.

I have to do softball again this year in order to graduate, which is basically a vague form of corporal punishment. It wouldn't be unfair to say that for every time I manage to hit the ball with the bat, I'm hit by the ball and walked to base twice. Coaches frantically rotate their pitchers, praying for one to find my batter's box and retrieve an easy strikeout; disgruntled fans shout at the ref, She's trying to get hit! She's jumping into it! Strike! Strike! I emerge victorious and take my base, thankful that the pain was brief and that my trial is over.

For the inning.

Ugh.

I'm one of those kids who always got the B+ in PE for sucking up and "good effort." Physically, I'm not built for sports: I'm wideset, somewhat heavy-chested, and I teeter on two stick-like legs that can barely support my 125 pounds. Mentally, I'm sports-retarded; during my first softball game (after I was hit by the ball, of course), I ran to the left and went straight from home to 3rd. The poor refs were confounded; my flustered coach yelled at me to for-the-love-of-God STOP. If you can, try to imagine me teetering along on my little legs to 3rd, with my coach fuming, both teams staring on in shock, and the parents in the stands whispering quietly amongst themselves, "It's so nice that they let the girl with down syndrome play."

So I'm looking forward to another year of that. Woo-hoo. The nice thing about it is that my teammates love me, they really do; anyone looks better when playing next to me, and that's a much-appreciated role in the world of semi-competitive girl's sports. I think it must be easier to pity me when I've got a dozen softball-sized bruises running all up and down my left side; if the ball didn't put them there, my team probably would.