Art of Persuasion

Memoir 1st Draft

Attitude

             Scorching sun-rays beam through the white, whipped clouds and the serine, smooth, blue sky, and reach the soft, stable, firm ground of reddish-brown dirt.  Deep, dark, thick but cut, green grass borders the rounded, diamond-shaped dirt; the grassland extends eastward until the surrounding metal fences, about ten-feet-high, prevent it from further growth.  At the fences’ corners, bright-yellow left and right field foul poles stand—in opposite directions— an unyielding two-hundred fifteen feet away from home plate.  The centerfield fence lands ten-feet farther than the foul poles.  Parallel to the right field fence and the visitor’s dugout, then past the high school parking lot, stands the eroding Rocky Mountains.  The hillside’s vegetation is starting to fade straw-yellow and become vacant.  Fellow classmates, some friends, and family watch the intensifying game from the stands.

          The cool afternoon, crisp, fall air turns sour.  The fifteen girls, including myself, surrounded the varsity head coach outside of the dugout hoping for words of encouragement, but knew those words would not come from his mouth or ever reach our ears.  We had lost the lead; we were now tied 2-2 in the bottom of the fourth inning.  Coach just glares.  Coach has dark hair with few grays covered by our team hat and dark eyes that are concealed behind black lenses.  His ordinary t-shirts and khaki shorts are always cleaned and pressed.  His white shoes gleam an impeccable, blinding light despite at least a couple years of wear.  His facial expressions and body language are frightening.  I can always tell when his eyes are rolling underneath his shades because his dark, bushy (yet well-tamed) brows will raise above the top of his sunglass frames and his mouth unleashes a loud, frustrated sigh.  When he is in an irritated mood he crosses his arms, turns his entire body 180 degrees, shows his back to home plate, and ignores the batter’s existence, which leaves her to feel abandoned, embarrassed, and humiliated.  He has self-destructing putdowns too. Intimidation is his evident persona.  However, I was finally a fairly mature senior that stayed with Coach’s reputable program.  My dad advised the possibility of transferring to a high school that had a more reasonable, a more compassionate, and a more pleasant varsity softball coach.  No matter where I go, ultimately I will have to deal with disagreeable people.  Anyway, I do not run from adversity. I was convinced I could handle any curve ball thrown by him.  Some nasty pitches were somewhat deceitful and misinterpreted through perspective.

I am up to the plate with two outs and runners on the corners; the opportunity to hit in the winning run arises.  Coach expects me to perform.  The umpire announces, “No balls.  Two strikes.”  The brain fuses all possible outcomes.  I have to come through and do not strike out.  Coach stands next to the third base with a noticeably unpleased look.  He claps (more like slaps) his hands together with an impressionable force that could kill any nasty insect, points his top right hand towards me, and spits, “C’mon.  Hit away.”  I am subconsciously terrified of failure.  Stepping in the batter’s box with the desire and uncertainty, the pitch travels high and outside of the strike zone: rise ball pitch.  The late swing whisks the air.   Strike three.  The hitting slump continues.  I return to the dugout with my head down.  My lack of confidence was reeking off my uniform and leaving semi-permanent stains. I comprehend that there is a chance for redemption defensively.  Ready to run out to right field with my visor and glove, I notice another teammate at my position.  Utter confusion.  One of the assistant coaches tells me to take a seat.  My worst fear turns into reality. 

            Coach temporarily used the authoritative control to press the dreaded repeat button of my junior year labeled, “The Season of Picking out the Pine Splinters.”  Unfortunately, those benches in our dugout were not the modern, aluminum shiny-silver seating, but the actually ancient lumber-crafted, splinter-producing structures.  Both types of benches are equally uncomfortable.  Junior year, I had become familiar with the pine and spent half of the fall season on it in bitter discontent.  I played the pity-party, “Why me?” game.  I lost my starting position to a senior; I possessed better athleticism and fundamentals than her.  The injustice felt unwarranted and undeserved.  At the post-season team banquet, one of the assistant coaches stated matter-of-factly, “Noél is her own worst enemy.”  He was one-hundred percent correct.  Every time I performed poorly at the plate, my body language translated defeat.  My internal dialogue revolved continuing self-destructive curses.  

The poor attitude from high school ball improved for the summer competitive club/travel team that both high school varsity assistant coaches managed.  The assistant coaches saw my talent, potential, and value as a player.  I excelled in competitive ball because of my relaxed, carefree approach.  The assistant coaches constructed my confidence by always reminding me of my strengths.  Regardless of my summer success against better competition, I still struggled and failed offensively my senior year.  My substandard performance usually connects to my frowning, and my frowning has been in direct correlation to my “bad,” attitude and frustrated feelings.  

            My face remains expressionless in order to maintain composure.  I shrug my shoulders, “Oh well,” and cheer for our pitcher.  This was the first time I did not pout on the bench.  Two balls are hit to right field and both are dropped.  Coach furiously screams, “C’mon.  Gotta have those.”  (That would not have happened if I was out there.  Coach knew it too.  He made a coaching mistake.)  Fortunately the opposition only snags one unearned run, but unfortunately the score is now 3-2.  The fifth inning ends with the bottom of our fruitless hitting line-up producing absolutely nothing offensively.  The assistant coaches nonchalantly convince Coach to at least let me play defense.  He reluctantly agrees.  No action in the outfield for two innings.

            It is the seventh inning.  Our last chance to win since high school games only last seven innings unless there is a tie.  There are no outs with runners on first and second; I am granted the opportunity to bat.  The opposing team calls a time out.  I run from the batter’s box to Coach sixty feet away.  He awards me some last second encouraging words, “C’mon.  You haven’t done anything all year.”  How inspiring.  I took some quick warm-up swings and repeated fifteen times the most “Beep you!” phrase that is too inappropriate to convey verbally to Coach.  (The censored ‘beep’ is a four-letter multi-functional word that may be used in various grammatical contexts like as a verb, a noun, an adverb, an adjective, and an in-suffix.) 

Anyway, neither pressure nor self-doubt struck only readiness as I step into the white-chalked batters’ box.  The pitcher is confident.  She struck me out last time.  She decides to challenge with straight fast-ball, belt-high, down the middle.  The swing thrashes the air.  Crack.  I sprint to first then as I am about to step on the corner of second base, I realize the ball like missile shot over centerfield fence by about ten feet.  The ball was crushed.  My sprint decelerates to a jogging trot.  I touch third base and my teammates are waiting for me at home.  I jump up and land both feet together on home plate.  They bang my helmet.  The screams and cheers explode.  We won 5-3.

All the years engaged in sports, my attitude was the underlying problem.  In my last year of high school ’ball I figured it out the saying: Life is ten percent of what happens to you and ninety percent of how you react to it.  “Jeez,” my dad says, “Your mom and I have talked to you about your attitude since you were this big.”  Then he lifts his arm and pats the air waist-high with his hand to show about how tall I was when my ‘attitude’ started.  But the friends and family who know me best would agree that my attitude—which usually springs forth the rolling eyes and grumbling sighs—has drastically improved over the last several years.  Said my mom recently, “Your positive outlook and upbeat attitude make people want to be around you more, and I’m proud of you for looking at all the positives in your tough situation.”  Attitude is a small perspective adjustment that can make a big difference on an experience: Too many of us underestimate the power of our minds.