Wednesday, I watched Karisa play her last softball game.
Tears welled in my eyes when it was over. I watched my sister begin to weep,
then pull herself together in one final noble act for the good of her team. I
watched her smile as she, for one last time, stood congratulating and
encouraging every teammate and coach. I wanted to cry because I knew, behind
the smile, her heart was really broken.
To an outsider, it may seem a bit silly that a sport could
mean so much. Even as I stood there, I tried to stop my tears by telling
myself, “Oh it’s just a game.” But it’s really not. It’s fourteen years worth
of passion.
We began playing softball the same year. I was six and
Karisa was seven. We played together for years, until she was old enough to
move up while I stayed behind. We both began playing simply because our parents
signed us up. But from the beginning, there was a difference. In the backyard,
Daddy and Karisa would practice catch, while I would mostly try to avoid being
hit by the ball or cry because I had
been hit. In the games, Karisa would have a position in the infield while I
squatted, drawing in the dirt or picking flowers in the outfield. When it came
to practicing on our own, both Karisa and I would complain. But while I would
find excuses, for some reason, Karisa always ended up doing it. After about
five years, I finally had enough, and I hung up my cleats. But Karisa kept
going.
Sometime in those first few years, a coach suggested that
Karisa try pitching. And I suppose that’s where it all began. I think she was
eight. There’s no telling how much money my family spent on pitching books and
Ernie Parker DVDs. But hey, those books and DVDs helped my father, who had
definitely never played fast-pitch softball, teach my sister how to throw. I’m not
really sure when the head-first dive occurred, but suddenly our summers were
planned around pitching camps and softball tournaments. My family has never
been on a vacation that wasn't based on a softball event. When Karisa got into
high school, softball became more of a year-round thing. In the summer and
fall, Daddy and Karisa would practice at the fields or in the rustic bullpen he
had cleared in the woods across the street. When it got too cold, they would
drive up to the church and practice in the gym. Sometimes I was dragged along
to record practices so they could review the film later. I cannot count the
number of times they would end practice earlier because one or both of them had
gotten mad. I don’t even know how many times Daddy said, “I’m not helping you
anymore,” or Karisa fought against his instruction. But in the end, the next
day, they always went back out there, with two gloves and a bucket of balls, so
that Karisa could become the best pitcher she could possibly be.
In all that time, I was always there, waiting at the church
for practice to be over in the winter, sitting in a lawn chair at dusty fields
in the summer, huddled in the dugout keeping stats for her high school team in
the spring, walking across the soccer field to see a few college games in the
fall. I wasn't known as a softball fan, though. In fact, it was pretty well
known amongst my family that I strongly disliked the game. Let’s be honest. My
idea of a vacation wasn't exactly dirt blowing all over my face as a girl slid
into home plate. But secretly, I've kind of enjoyed softball all these years.
Ok, summer ball, no. But these last eight years of high school/college have
actually been borderline enjoyable. Yes, there have been moments when I've
almost gone crazy after hours of driving to games. Yes, there have been moments
when innings have dragged on for hours. Yes, there have been moments when I've
been sick-at-my-stomach nervous when we just needed one more run. But watching
my sister do something she truly loved, something she worked toward with
everything in her, that made it all worth it.
As I stood watching my sister say goodbye to the game that
has been her life for the past fourteen years, I didn't cry because I was sad
that it was over. I cried at her passion. She has devoted over a decade to a
single sport, a single position within that sport. Every choice she has made,
from early morning runs to avoiding physically risky activities (*ahem* ice
skating), has hinged on becoming the best softball pitcher she could possibly
be, not only for herself, but for her coaches and her teammates.
As I stood with tears in my eyes, I thought about myself. What am I so passionate about? What do I care about enough that I will dedicate my life to doing it as best I can? What will I do to be the best I can be, not only for my own benefit, but for the benefit of those around me?
I think I've known all along that, to Karisa, softball is
more than just a sport. But right here at the end, I've finally gotten it. Finally,
at the last game I’ll probably ever watch my sister play, I saw past the dust
and the lawn chairs and the car rides. I finally realized that these last
fourteen years, I've seen real passion, dedication, and conviction. And I so admire and thank my sister for that.
