We were twelve. The sun shone. Our hunger had been satisfied with grilled hamburgers and watermelon. We sat Indian style on the grass. He was cute. Short blond hair, light brown eyes and nice smile made me happy to be with him. He slowly leaned sideways, until his head almost touched his knees. I watched his head lower, his face turned toward me, his eyes on mine. I was fascinated.
KA-WHACK! A softball smacked my forehead. Pain exploded and my world spun. I was knocked backwards like a bowling pin, my legs still tucked under me. The world went upside down, voices whirled around and echoed from someplace far away; my ears rang like falling stalactites cracking on hard cavern ground. Everything went black.
The softball game stalled. Light came back and hurt my eyes.
“Didn’t you see it,” he asked?
It hurt to shake my head.
Someone yelled, “Is she ok?”
The men and older boys resumed their game. My head still spun.
“Honey,” my mother called, “come over here.”
I got up on wobbly legs, climbed back through the fence and went to the picnic tables where my mother sat with the women and small children. I needed sweetened iced tea and something cold for my throbbing head.
I didn’t need my mother fussing over me; telling me I should have known better than to get close to the ball field.
Meadow. An impromptu baseball diamond in a grassy meadow at a Saturday church picnic. But, it was pointless to correct her. She would worry if I were wrapped in cotton. As for me, I felt embarrassed and abandoned that no one had protected me from that ball. Who was the outfielder, anyway?
In the summers since that sunny day, I never did do much baseball watching. Didn’t get into the sport. After all, I wasn’t there for the game, all those years ago. I was there with the cute guy. Apparently it’s a guy thing to watch the game and talk to a girl…and assume she’s aware of the game and will see the ball flying right toward her.