“Hey Deb, you’re up!”

“What? Me? Reed, you promised that I wouldn’t have to bat. I told you I really suck at softball. REALLY SUCK. You told me you just needed me to fill out the roster so you wouldn’t have to forfeit the game.”

“Chill out, will you? Don’t worry—just strike out.”

I walked to home plate, sweating in Tennessee’s sticky summer heat. The butterflies in my stomach felt more like a herd of wildebeests, a visceral reminder of years and years of gym class where I never—not even once—connected bat to ball. I cursed Reed for coercing me to play despite my adamant protests. I cursed Al who, while not a member of the team, managed to fit in and play well enough. I cursed myself for putting myself in this position in the first place.

But there I was, standing center stage, with the eyes and expectations of my colleagues and friends focused on what was certain to be abject humiliation. Some people are afraid of death. Even more are afraid of public speaking. My greatest fear has always been public failure.

That fear was about to be reality.

The pitcher threw out the first pitch.

“Ball One!” shouted the ref.

“Oh good,” I thought, “maybe he’s going to walk me.” But with the bases loaded, I realized that was not likely.

The next pitch came fast and furious.

“Ste—rike one”

I took a deep breath as the pitcher prepared for the next pitch. He made eye contact and seemed to sense my terror.

Smiling benevolently, he lobbed a pitch aimed precisely at my bat. It was a pitch that NO ONE could miss.

In the milliseconds between the ball leaving his hand and connecting with my bat, I saw the possibility, perhaps for the first time ever, to hit that ball, and let Jen, who was on third base, run home.

I swung and with a decisive whack, I hit the softball—a straight hit right back at the pitcher, who caught it, threw it to home plate and got both me and Jen out, bringing the inning to an end. The game was over. We lost.

I was ecstatic that I hit the ball and literally jumped for joy. A short-lived joy as Reed, the team captain, the very guy who coerced me to play despite vehement refusals—that guy came over and yelled at me “I told you to strike out! You just lost the game for us. Good work. We should have just forfeited.”

Sometimes it is difficult to distinguish success from failure.

I never played softball again, but several years later I attended Eric’s kindergarten field day celebration. My unshakable pride in my precocious first child was buoyed by the joy and sunshine that illuminated the end of year activities. But my heart sank when they moved to the baseball diamond for a game of wiffleball. I hoped they would run out of time before Eric was up to bat. I hoped that the other kids would strike out. I hoped for a sudden thunderstorm to bring an end to the festivities. But, no, the game went on. My husband, Al, and I watched as each child got their turn at bat. When the time came, Eric cheerfully walked to the plate. I felt the familiar waves of nausea overtaking me. I could feel the sting of humiliation, hear the jeers of contempt that were sure to follow. I grabbed Al’s hand and squeezed it tight– painfully tight. The pitcher threw the ball, Eric casually swung, hit the ball and ran to first base. A hit! A hit! I jumped and screamed wildly as if my child had scored the winning run in the World Series. Al looked at me with his “What is WRONG with you?” face, but I didn’t care. My child. MY child. MY child had hit a baseball. Who’d of thought?

With this hit came confirmation that my weaknesses are not inevitably passed along to my children. Confirmation that their failures and mine, their successes and mine, are different. Confirmation that my children are not bound by my experiences or limitations and that they create their own destiny.

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