Fiction, by Sharline Dominguez

Five minutes into the game, one girl on second, Richie calls out my number. Knees trembling like a pair of maracas, heart performing acrobatic stunts in my chest, veins bulging in the side of my forehead, I ran off from my post. You see, standing in the outfield in 95 degree weather requires patience, attentiveness, and willingness. People truly undermine the amount of athleticism that this position requires—no one cares about the outfielders who save the infielders from their mistakes. Making my way into the dugout, I looked straight into Richie’s eyes, in disbelief of what he was about to tell one of his most committed players on the team.

Not only was I paying for the second baseman’s mistake of not catching a line drive, but the coach let her slide away with it. It was as if as much as I tried to be the best I can be, always having my head in the game, the coach never appreciated anything I did. I began to think of how insignificant I was to the Lady Saints for the fact that Richie never put me in any of the games after my injury. After fracturing my ribs while at the beach that summer, my softball career was never the same—I lost hope. Sitting in the dugout infested with seeds and Gatorade caps, I spoke to one of my teammates, Coralis.

I began to cry hot tears, feeling the dirt from the mound sliding off my sticky cheeks. I put my hands in my face and allowed for Coralis to hug me. As the game progressed, I intently observed the second baseman’s performance and how much it was lacking stability. In my mind, I was sure I could outperform her, but without Richie’s acknowledgement, confined to the dugout I would remain. However, I knew it was wrong for me to compare myself to a fellow teammate for we were in this together. Whether I was better than her did not seem to matter anymore as the innings slowly dragged on, and the scoreboard reminded us of the opposing team’s tremendous lead by five.

Even after Coralis’ consoling, I was too defeated to even think I was truly a part of this team. All the long and sizzling summer days I spent on the mound, working my muscles out, hungry to catch that ball whenever it was possible, seemed to hold no significance to anyone but my father. I felt as if I was leading my only one-man parade. The team was not acknowledging my skills and my dedication to the sport. But what I did not and could never understand was that the coach loved each and every one of us equally. After the game was over, I walked home with my father that night, all the whilethinking of how being in a team is never about myself. Instead, it is a family with its ups and its downs.