Keeping On

It was the bottom of the third inning and there was sweat dripping down the back of my neck. The sun was out in the late springtime, and amidst the city, there was a gaggle of people here for one thing and one thing only: little league baseball.

My cap was almost too big for me, so I kept having to tip it back to make sure I didn’t miss a homerun, and when I heard the crack of a baseball against a metal bat, I set off running towards third base.

Tegan, running forwards just like me, hit home base and the crowd went nuts right as the first-baseman caught the ball. Everybody was safe. Our team, the Bloomingdale Cubs, had just scored another point against our rivals, and all of the parents and siblings in the stands were going nuts for us.

Tee-ball, little league, whatever you want to call it – it was just a regular thing. I saw other kids start to do it when I entered second grade, and so I asked Dad if I could do it too, and he smiled and said he’d be happy to sign me up.

Tegan, my best friend forever and always (especially since her mom was now my babysitter while my dad worked during the day, since she worked from home), tagged along too, and there we were. The smell of popcorn and hamburgers was so tangible that I had to subconsciously keep my stomach from growling, as if any random person on the field could hear my chubby hunger.

The next batter stepped up to the plate, one of the only other girls on the team, and she spat her gum out as a statement of toughness. With her bat cocked behind her head, she stared down the amateur pitcher, and when he threw the ball, she almost knocked it out of the park.

I took it as an immediate cue to run as fast as I could to the home plate, and then I had done it – I had scored a point for my team, something that was so incredibly rare for me that it was really sort of pathetic. But I couldn’t hold back my happiness, and neither could the Cubs parents in the stands, one dad in particular.

My dad was standing front and center in the bleachers, arms up and hands open, and even through the chain-link fence I saw the huge grin on his aging face. He clapped a few times and waved to get my attention as I jogged back to the dugout, and when he saw me, he gave a thumbs-up; I waved right back and returned the favor.

Cupping his hands around his mouth, he shouted, “Woo!”

And that was weird, honestly.

Dad was never one to be really vocal about things in general. He kept most things to himself, and yet there he was, being the loudest parent of them all when I scored a point for my team, who eventually won that day.

It wasn’t often that single parents came to the little league games. Even though Tegan’s dad walked out on their family before the Spice Girls even hit the mainstream, and even though word got out that Joshua Olayos was a widow, it was still sometimes strange to see. My teammates had moms, dads, brothers, sisters, and the occasional grandparent show up to games.

I can’t say I ever minded, though. I was used to it at that point, even though I had only gotten to know my mom for a little while before she was taken away.

There was at least one person in this world who cheered me on, even when I didn’t even know if I was doing anything right. There were people who came into my life later on who did the same thing, but from the start, my dad has been my constant. That much holds true.