Tag: Baseball

Swinging at Life’s Curveballs

Posted on February 25, 2013 by Jennifer Wolfe

Curveball (Photo credit: John-Morgan)

In baseball, a pitcher throws a fastball when they want to get ahead in the count. Thrown hard, a fastball is straight and powerful, relying on location location to throw off the batter; low inside, high outside, and it changes with every pitch. Fastballs come hard and quick, but when the batter makes connection – look out.

Curveballs, on the other hand, rely on technique. Pitchers use curveballs when they want to frustrate the batter .Slower than a fastball, a curveball combines with gravity to
start high then drop down, making connection challenging, but all the sweeter when it happens.

To me, life can seem like a baseball game. I’m up at the plate, bases loaded, two outs. Pressure’s on. I’m not sure what’s coming at me, I just know I don’t want to strike out. If I can’t connect, I at least want to go down swinging.

Like a baseball player, I have clear focus and a lofty set of goals for my life. Some could even be considered the equivalent of moving up into the major leagues someday. I suppose that’s the beauty of being my age-I’ve lived enough and made plenty of mistakes to have a clearer sense of what I need to do to get where I want to be-and then the curveball comes.

I’m still at the plate. I scan the field, hear my teammates shouts of encouragement. I know my family is out there somewhere, cheering from afar. I want to connect. First pitch: fastball. Strike one-but at least I swung. My pen quivers in my hand as I prepare for the next pitch. The field transforms to my garden, as I gaze out the window for inspiration. How do I tell my story? Who is out there ready to read it?

Next pitch: fastball again. This time, I connect-but it’s a foul tip. As I step back from the batter’s box I see my published essay, and smile at the comments from my readers. The count is against me: no balls, two strikes. I know what’s coming next…

Anticipation: A baseball player making a pitch prepares for the action by moving his arm back. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

The curveball comes slowly at me, topspin creating an exaggerated sense of speed. I know it’s gonna drop, but I can’t track it. Moving side to side, or up and down, I can’t tell where it’s going to break. Should I swing and risk the strike out? My goals flash before my eyes; I see the list carefully crafted at the beginning of each year, urging me to take a chance. I see the three sets of eyes, two blue, the other brown, gazing at me with love and neediness, searching for someone to look up to.

Life is unpredictable. I know I need to stay awake to the possibilities, assume the positive, and keep centered. I know that this curveball could hit the homerun. It doesn’t have to be the one that will knock me down, strike me out, and lose the game.

I know it might not be the one that drops so far down that I cannot reach it. Telling myself to let go of my expectations, to get out of my head and let my body do what it was born to, I swing…

Jennifer Wolfe

Jennifer Wolfe, a writer-teacher-mom, is dedicated to finding the extraordinary in the ordinary moments of life by thinking deeply, loving fiercely, and teaching audaciously. Jennifer is a Google Certified Educator, Hyperdoc fanatic, and a voracious reader. Read her stories on her blog, mamawolfe, and grab free copies of her teaching and parenting resources.

Friday Photo: “Never Give Up”

Posted on May 26, 2012 by Jennifer Wolfe

FreeDigitalPhotos.net

It was a rough playoff game. The loser faced the dismal loser’s bracket, forced to claw their way back up. Neither team wanted to start off the series that way.

The game started out ok, and we kept it tied for the first few innings 0-0. Then 1-1. But when we got to the third and fourth, and their pitcher sent curve ball after fastball after slider at our boys, their spirits sank and so did their bats.

The opposition took advantage, and runs began pouring in. 3-1. 5-1. Then it was 6-2, bottom of the sixth. Our last up at bat, and hope was nearly gone – until their pitcher ran up his count, and had to exit. Thank goodness for Little League arm-protection rules.

And an amazing thing happened. Our boys started cheering each other on. We got on base, one after another and they were loaded. One out. Home plate started seeing our footprint, and when my son stole home it was a tie game, 6-6. Before we knew it, the shortstop stole home, too, and we were on top-a place we never expected to be.

After the game, I asked my son what he thought about the night – how was he feeling during and after? He paused, then responded, “Well, I guess you just can never give up.”

Life lessons from a 12-year-old.

Jennifer Wolfe

Tribute

Posted on November 17, 2011 by Jennifer Wolfe

His laugh, low and husky, always makes me smile. Not a man to rush, he enjoys the moments of his life, no matter how big or small. ‘Things have a way of working themselves out,” he always tells me.

For a little northern California girl, Los Angeles is a city of magic. PSA shuttles me to Burbank during the summer, never disappointing my expectations. The burgundy Buick feels slow and safe, just what a small granddaughter needs to feel welcomed in the big city. The short drive to Sherman Oaks holds the anticipation of Christmas morning at the end of the road. Down one endless avenue to the next, right up to the little yellow house. His strong hand reaches for mine across the beige upholstery.

The radio in the front bedroom quietly broadcasts the latest news as Nanook the Husky softly nuzzles my welcome. Push up pops appear from the freezer. The bullfighter still graces the bedroom wall. Joan of Arc gazes from her perch. The bean bag offers a nest to sink into.

He slows down with time, his feet shuffling down the street and heavy on the pedal. My turn to drive now. Eyeglasses no longer slip from their case tucked into his breast pocket. My turn to read aloud the news. Clarence Thomas on the front page evokes his sense of morality, long honed through years in the legal profession. His hands strong, skin thin, grasp mine gently across the kitchen table. I settle into the moss green upholstery, trying to plant myself in the moments I know are few to come. The clock talks to him now, announcing the loss of minutes left to spend together. “Go, Abuela, I’ll stay here,” I urge, clamoring for another precious moment.

Later that night, strains of ‘Gone With The Wind’ float through the apartment. The phone rings in the dark. ‘Please come,’ the voice pleads. ‘He’s gone.’

We arrive in the darkness. More stoic unsettled, she draws the long silver Cartagena scissors to tenderly snip a lock of his hair. So still. The tears flow silently, slowly.

His hands clasp in tranquility. I slump to his side, tenderly kiss his cheek. No rush now. He has enjoyed the moments of his life. I savor this last one we spend together. Somehow, I know things have a way of working themselves out.