I had moved back to San Francisco for 8th grade. During our last precious days in New Hampshire, we had been in contact with the coach of Bombers Baseball Club. I have worked with the pitching coach for almost 4 months now, and Coach Castelluccio said I had a spot.

Bombers Baseball Club, you have to understand, is the travel team that owns the Bay. I had tried out once and got cut. I was excited to have the spot.

We showed up to practice at Marin Catholic the day before school. I was a bit nervous since I had not played all summer. I was a bit late but nothing bad.

I got there on time for long toss. This was where I was worried. I am a pitcher. I told them I was a pitcher. Yet here I was, with no arm strength, struggling to throw 90 feet. I only knew one person there. Needless to say, it was awkward.

Shaking off my struggles, I was called to the outfield. Determined to make up for it, I ran harder, tracked balls better, and had better footwork than anybody. I could see the coaches nodding their approval.

I got back in line to take a fly ball. WHAM, someone taps my shoulder. It’s James. I know him from pitching camp.

“They want you in the bullpen,” he says.

This is what I had been dreading. I thank James and walk off to the guillotine.

I meet the aptly nicknamed coach “Shrek” and my catcher. He seems nice enough.

We start warming up. It feels natural enough.

I’m ready. I step on the rubber, signal “fastball” and let fly. High and outside.

Next one. Changeup. In the dirt.

It goes on like this. I locate a pitch here and there but I’m rusty. I suffer through it, make a few decent pitches, thank the catcher for his troubles, and walk in shame to the batting cage.

The irony in this is that I’m a TERRIBLE hitter. A summer full of golf didn’t help either. Yet I get into my groove easily. I line them back at the L-screen, easily pounding 3 inches away from the pitcher. I’m in the zone, and I wish I could stay here forever.
It’s not forever, but it’s close enough. There are only 20 minutes left in my first Bombers practice when Coach Shrek comes by and calls us in to play infield, finishing up practice. I do well. It goes by in a blur.

School starts the next day, and I forget about my bumpy performance until Friday night, when I get an email. I didn’t perform well, and my spot is in jeopardy. The next practice is on Sunday.

I spend Saturday morning at the gym, trying to lift, pull, and run away my stress. I hang indoors the rest of the day. I feel good about practice on Sunday.

Then I wake up. Everything changes. I realize how badly I played on Wednesday. I start to think that, without time to practice, I won’t be able to keep my spot. A wave of emotion hits me and I don’t really know what I’m feeling.

I send Coach a text reading:

Hey, I realize I didn’t play very well on Wednesday. I feel like there won’t be much difference today. I want to show up but I know I won’t get the spot. What do you think?

Within five minutes I get a response.

If you think you can show better today, you should come, otherwise I think you are right. Your call.

I’m torn. I don’t want to embarrass myself again, but I want to try no matter what. It’s not whether you win or lose, it’s how you play the game, right?

After a long internal battle, I text back.

I don’t think I can show better enough to keep my spot. Part of me thinks I should come anyway, but on the other hand I think there’s no point if I can’t keep it.

Coach’s response is quicker this time:

You need to have confidence and want to make the team; again your call.

Well, that helped. Thanks, Coach. Like I didn’t know.

I’m panicking inside. I’m scared to make the wrong decision. I am going over every possible outcome of each choice in my head.

After more dilemma-battling, I text him again.

If I got back into practice, could I try to make the team in the spring?

Coach takes longer this time. After maybe ten minutes, I get a response.

We have an open tryout so everyone can try.

So this is it. I’ve asked all my questions. No more beating around the bush. Yes or a no, no maybe, to quote the great philosopher Katy Perry.

I start to text. Stop to think it over. Start typing. Pause again. Finally I have my message.

I think my best shot is to work with the coach and try in the spring. Thank you for the opportunity.

My finger hovers over the SEND button. I know I can’t turn back.

Slowly I tap the button and watch the bar fill up. My phone makes the SENT noise and coach responds quickly.

Ok, I’ll let everyone know.

I sit thinking over the choice I’ve just made. At first I think I should have just let the chips fall where they may and gone to practice. Face the music. You get the idea.

Then I have a change of heart. I know, being out of practice, I can’t keep the spot. Better prepare for next season.

Some people will say I let the team down. Some will say I’m not motivated. But I know I made the right decision for me.

I put on a pair of athletic shorts, a tank top, and head to the gym. I’ve got a lot of work to do.