Tobin Del Cuore

I learned from a very young age, particularly by the influence of my father, that when one has a job to do, whether it is big or small, one does it to the best of ability and to completion. In my first decade, the real test came when I was put out on the good ‘ol American baseball field. I would have preferred many other places, but there I was, a few times a week, drawing circles in the dirt, praying the ball wouldn’t come my way and admiring the Dandy Lions that sprouted up around right field.I don’t remember why I played for three seasons. It would seem that I should have been done after only one, but I returned, maybe hoping for some change, be it the activity, those involved, or me. But nothing did come.Near the end of my final season I couldn’t get a hit. Over and over I was coached to watch the ball as it flew towards me like a bolt of lightening, and I would watch it as long as I could. Then an overwhelming fear would take me, and I would pull away from the plate. I would flinch. I still flinch when any of the numerous athlectic objects, like baseballs, basketballs, tennis balls and particularly footballs are hurled at me. I have even been known to scream like a little girl. (No shame here.)But all the coaching, all the metaphors didn't work, and I was miserable that I couldn't hit the ball. I wanted to quit.As some strange incentive, my father had made the point that I couldn’t get new cleats until I got a hit. But how could I get over my fear and hit anything, much less run to first base, considering I completed the feat, looking like some hobo kid from the town trailer park who wore regular sneakers on the baseball field. That was no way to build my confidence. If anything, baseball is really about a look and an attitude, and I needed to look good to have the confidence that would bring that hit home.My father advised me that I shouldn’t quit. He gave me a list of reasons why and said that, in general, I would regret it later. At the time that was the last thing I wanted to hear. I either wanted my new cleats or I was done and I would go on to learn all the Janet Jackson videos I could manage. I didn’t want to think that some day in my thirties I would be on antidepressants, addicted to diet pills because I didn’t complete farm team.The hit never came, but the cleats did. My mom took pity on me and got me a pair. I guess it caused a huge argument, like ever other topic of discussion between my parents, but I was proud of my new athletic fashion and I finished out the season, hoping one of the other boys would notice how good I looked in them. (Never happened.)My dad always used the “baseball is like life” metaphor, and I realize now the truth in that, but back then I had such issues with the idea of my life mimicking such a boring sport. But this is the same thing for a boy like me, as ballet is for the Jiffy Lube mechanic.Profile Edited by MPS MySpace Editor 2.0