The Last Philly

Even though Lindsay quit, we (Glenn and I) refused to quit on her.  In games, she maintained playing time just like everyone else.  In practice, I pulled her aside for individual batting.   She would stand there and watch perfect pitches cross in front of her.   Lindsay refused to try, but I kept pitching, collecting the balls, and pitching.  She not only acted as if she didn’t care, she would tell you.   Nothing I said or did seemed to change her attitude.

Finally, I came up with something to motivate Lindsay, or she figured it out herself.  A few girls on the team played each game, each inning, and each pitch as if the safety of their pet dogs depended on it.  In the final practice before what would be our final game, I asked her, “Is it fair that you don’t care and won’t even try, when those girls, (pointing to the infield where the rest of the team was practicing, while we were in the outfield trying to learn how to hit), play their butts off trying to win”.    This seemed to change the attitude; however, I think it may have had more to do with her teammates giving her the cold shoulder.   Up until now, the concept of letting her teammates down had not crossed Lindsay’s mind.   She thought her lack of effort was only hurting herself.

In the last inning of our tournament game, we were facing an extremely fast pitcher.  In this league, she was unhitable.   We couldn’t even get a walk, because the umpire with the giant strike zone was working the game.  Since a pitcher can only pitch 3 of the 6 innings by rule, the game was close.  We were only down 7 to 5.   A couple walks, a few stolen bases and we could tie the game.

We managed to get a runner on base with one out and Lindsay stepping into the batters box.  The pitcher was throwing fire.   First pitch, strike.   Second pitch, strike.    No balls, and two strikes, she would not be walked.   Third pitch, foul ball into the warm-up circle in front of the home dugout.   Fourth pitch, foul ball rolling down the first base line.  You could see the fire in her eyes; she knew that a hit would make her the tying run.  No one else put the bat on the ball against this pitcher as good as she had.  Fifth pitch, crossed just above the eyes passing the bill of the helmet, called strike three.  Lindsay marched to the dugout defiantly, slumped to the bench, hands in face, tears pushing between her fingers.  To her surprise, her teammates came to comfort her “It’s okay, at least you hit a foul ball”,  “good job, you almost got a hit”, “that was a ball, you would’ve gotten a hit, if the ump wasn’t blind”, …..  

Although this moment of pain led to tears, it was short lived.  She walked away from the game with a different feeling than anytime before.   She was always afraid to stick her neck out; it was easier to give a poor effort only to fail.   She was afraid to give her best effort and fail.  For once, she escaped that sick feeling of not trying that hounded her after every contest.  Lindsay finally got it, she finally won.