November Spotlight: Rhonda Roberts
Each month we shine a spotlight on a member of White County Creative Writers.
This time around we feature a short piece by WCCW Member Rhonda Roberts.
We hope you enjoy her story!
The Baseball Game
Squirming gingerly on the weathered, splinter-ridden bleachers, we prepare for yet another Little League baseball game. The spectators gossip, amiably sizing up the competition, hopeful this will be a pleasant, rather than painful, seventy-five minutes.
We draw the outfield first. Parents take turns yelling at their kids in the field, and I feel secret relief that for once it’s not my son who has his mitt on his head or is picking dandelions or something worse. We suffer through inevitable missed balls and botched plays, sprinkled liberally with decent fielding and an occasional impressive catch.
After a short eternity it’s our team’s turn at bat, and, eventually, up comes my son. He staggers like a knobby-kneed colt up to the plate, flailing a bat half his length in a way that makes me fear for the catcher’s life. Then suddenly he is still, the perfect pose of a hitter, and my heart crawls up in my throat. He swings and misses, looks back at us, mortified. We shout encouragement and strategies; the first he hears, the second he ignores. I ache for him. Let him hit it, I pray. Please, please, please, then WHAM and the balls flies out to left field, the outfielders and my son all frozen in amazement, until the frenzied screaming of the crowd spurs them into action.
The boy flings the bat, nearly impaling the umpire, then takes off at top speed, which for him is a loping gait guaranteed to send his parents into howls of anguish.
“RUN,” we scream. “For pity’s sake, RUN!” He eventually rounds first, stops at second until the outfield gets control of the ball, then decides to keep going.
Our screams of “RUN” turn to “STOP, STOP, STOP,” all of which are ignored. Somehow, the boy thrashes and staggers his way around the diamond, and miraculously makes it home safe. And there we are, making the old bleachers bounce as we jump up and down and scream at the top of our lungs, then drop to our seats, exhausted.
As we make our way back to the car, the boy says, “I don’t know why you’re so tired –- after all, it’s not like YOU were playing or anything.”
We smile wearily. “You have no idea, son,” we say. “You have no idea.”
You can find out more about Rhonda Roberts on her profile page.