Third time’s the charm. I always hated that saying. Because in the world I grew up in, it was never true. In the Taylor household, hearing the count to three wasn’t lucky; it was the kiss of death.


Kirsten Taylor was ranked #1 for high school softball and had just signed on with one of the leading universities to play for another four years. She held the national record for most consecutive hits and had been recognized on ESPN and the Today Show. She had always had a gift for softball and the graceful, almost magical way that she played with such power and yet such ease never failed to bring tears to her proud parents’ eyes. Each had played either baseball or softball all through their lives and loved it more than almost anything else in the world, second only to their precious Kirsten. Her father even coached her team, which could have created some friction between them, but in the end, only brought them closer. On top of everything else, Kirsten was an honors student, an avid volunteer, and homecoming queen. But to me, she was just my big sister.

Kirsten and I didn’t have a bad relationship: she and I got along just fine. Me and her shadow though? We tended to clash a bit more. By the time I was taking my first steps she was already earning her first junior leagues trophy, which left little attention for me.

My entire childhood was centered around Kirsten’s workouts, Kirsten’s practices, Kirsten’s tournaments, Kirsten’s success. As for me, having no desire or talent for playing the sport, I was literally pushed away to watch from the sidelines.

I used to find new ways to keep myself entertained during each game, since they all seemed the same to me. One time I would count the number of left-handed hitters on each team, another time I tried to place each player with a family cheering in the stands, another time I just tried to assign each girl an animal to represent their distinct features and movements.

One time, I counted the number of seconds it took a girl to strike out. Sometimes it would be dragged out: there would be a few “balls” in between strikes or perhaps the pitcher wanted to prolong the game or was more concerned with the hitter’s buddy who was trying to steal a base on another part of the diamond. These were the times when the hitter would keep her hopes up, still imagining the end result coming out in her favor. Other times, though, it took less than a minute or two for a player to take her stance, miss every opportunity given to her, and walk away in shame.

At today’s game, I had been trying to decipher whether or not two of the other team’s players were dating or not when my mother scolded me for not paying closer attention to my sister.

“Don’t you care about Kirsten’s performance, Mel? She’s worked so hard to make you proud of her.”

I turned away from my mother to face the field so that she wouldn’t see my exaggerated eye roll. If Kirsten played well for anyone but herself, it was for our parents. I could be halfway to Australia right now and it wouldn’t affect her in the slightest.

“Mom, Kirsten’s going to do well whether I stare at her or not. Why do I even have to be here?”

Instantly regretting the fact that I used my outside voice for that comment, my mother’s glare confirmed what I had suspected the result to be: strike one.

“Melanie Marie, in this family, we always support one another. It’s part of what it means to be a family. We put each other first, and we always encourage them to achieve their dreams, whatever those may be.”

I wanted to contain my snort of laughter, I really did, but the irony was just too much. “Oh, my mistake, Mom. Guess that means that I’m adopted since I haven’t gotten an ounce of support since day one.” She shot me a warning look silently telling me to shush since I was unconsciously raising my voice to her, but I felt that the years of bottled emotions were finally starting to surface and I couldn’t cap them. “Sorry I didn’t come out swinging a softball bat, Linda. I know that was a real disappointment to you.”

Strike two.

As if ignoring her nonverbal cues to shut up wasn’t enough, I had just addressed my mother by her first name- a sign of absolute disrespect in our family- and on top of that, I was practically yelling. …Something that caught the ear of my normally softball game absorbed father, who proceeded to leave his place in the dugout to come intervene.

“Is there a problem here? Because I am trying to coach a softball game.”

For a moment the image of my father standing above me, his hands on his hips and his gaze beating down on me caused me to feel shamed and duck my head, mumbling a quiet “No, sir” before he continued lecturing me.

“This day is not about you, Mel. It’s about your sister. She is the one out there trying to make something of herself and you are going to respect that.”

He began walking away just as I began emerging from my shell of submission and stood up to face him. “Actually,” I stated with a calm yet firm voice, “this day is about me.”

“Excuse me?”

“At least, it’s going to be about me. Every day of my life has been about Kirsten and your legacy and about goddamn softball.” I paused for a moment, relishing the sheer horror in my father’s eyes as my last words echoed in his ears. “But I’m done. I’m going to make today about me.”

Strike three.

And with that, I was out.