My Story: Entry 3

The following is a story about me. It's not exactly a journal. And it's not really an autobiography either. I choose to see my life as a long, cohesive story. Everything fits together, and everything is full of meaning.

Entry 3: 4th Grade

Picture a skinny, 9-year-old kid running toward a grass field with a kickball tucked beneath his arm. He started going to this school the previous year, and is still having trouble making friends. He's a little short for his age, more than a little socially awkward, and equally clumsy. Half of the times he steps up to the plate, he has trouble connecting with the ball as it tumbles and bounces past his foot. Even when he does manage to kick the ball, it usually goes straight to one of the infielders, and he's out before he makes it to first.

Still, every day he comes back to play kickball; hoping, waiting for those rare times when he makes it onto the field. Every day he comes out hoping to do something helpful for his team, but most every day, he walks away at the end of recess embarrassed for having missed a catch or missed a kick or missed an out. But sure as the sunrise, he's back the next day, hopeful that a new day will brings with it some small moment of victory.

And this particular day, he's sure of that moment! After all, today he's the one with the ball. Whoever gets the ball from the cart gets to be one of the team captains for that day, in charge of choosing the team. Today, he made a point of being the first one out of class and the first one in line, and it paid off! Triumphantly, he ran to the field to pick his winning team.

Okay, since you got the ball from the cart, you get to choose -- first pick or first ball?

First pick.
Okay, you pick first.

The choice is obvious, it always is. Cory is in many ways the opposite of our protagonist. He's tall, well-liked, and the best kickball player in the grade. Who else would be the first choice?

Just as Cory is about to be picked, he turns around and starts walking slowly away from the field. As Cory gets further and further from the soon-to-be game, the confusion of the 9-year-old ball-fetcher grows. Where is Cory going?

When Cory at last reaches the volleyball courts on the asphalt, he leans back against the pole which holds the net, watching the field and waiting. All at once, it dawns on the mild-mannered boy: Cory is waiting so that he doesn't have to be on my team.

He's a sensitive child, prone to tears. He takes a deep breath. Swallows. Crying only makes it more embarrassing. Only makes it harder to make friends.

He fights off the wave of emotion, and searches for the next best pick. Either Eric or Simon probably, they're both pretty good. The decision is a lot harder when he's choking back tears. In the seconds that it takes him to make up his mind, Eric turns around, and he too begins walking away from the field. Eric only makes it four or five steps when the skinny, sobbing 9-year-old rushes past him, away from the field. He has no ball in his arms, only the tears in his eyes and the hole in his chest.

I haven't played kickball since.