![]() ![]() I’d been writing stories for as long as I could remember. ![]() ![]() Then there was my professor father who’d gone to college on a basketball scholarship, and was very proud that I’d finally expressed an interest in anything other than reading or writing. True, the only reason I stayed on the team was because my best friend was on it, and I liked hanging out with her on the bus. This is how I was often hit in the head with balls, and ended up sitting in the dugout.īut did this indicate a lack of hustle? This seemed harsh, even to my 10-year-old, probably concussed brain. Mostly I just stared at the treetops past the field, thinking of whatever story I was writing at the moment. Worse, I was terrible at it, to the detriment of the team. But the rest of the game – where you had to stand out in the field hoping no balls would fly your way because then you might have to catch them – was less thrilling to me. Oh, I loved the part where you went up to bat to hit the ball. Me, no hustle? How could anyone think that? The conversation moved on to who, out of my fellow players, Coach was going to substitute for me, and I leaned back into the dugout, shocked by what I’d heard. ![]()
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |