saving the best of last is for assholes

I've never really been athletic. I don't like to run. Hell, I barely like to walk. And for the record, this didn't start as an adult. I didn't like running around and shit like all other little kids. So, naturally, I wasn't a big team sports sort of girl growing up. There was one exception though, T-Ball.

The town I grew up in in New Jersey was fairly small. My brother and I pretty much knew everyone on our t-ball team and my dad, who was one of the coaches, knew all the other coaches.

While I was on the team, I wasn't always really into the game. I'd get bored and walk off the benches to go swing on the swing sets that were next to the field or I would wonder off with a friend. I just wasn't too into it. Add that to the fact that I was the last to bat every time. My dad would lovingly tell me that they were saving the best for last and I had to wait my turn. At four maybe five years old, I didn't like this answer but I accepted it. I was, in fact, the best.

The coaches (and sometimes the parents in the stands) would call me back to the field when it was time for me to bat. This is where things got interesting. The ringer of Bohm's Sod Farm T-Ball team would step on to the plate. Watch out mother fuckers. I meant business. It is true that my business meant missing the tee every now and then. I dare you to try to hit a stationary ball perched on a tee some time. It isn't as easy as it sounds. Back off.

When I did make contact with the ball, it was magic. Suddenly it was clear why they were saving me for last. One for the win. Home run should have been my middle name. I'd hit the ball and take off running. The kids on the opposing team would yell, naturally, as I ran around the bases. I couldn't bother with them. It was my moment. A fuckin' t-ball legend. I'd make it to home and return to clapping and my dad picking me up telling me what a good job I did. Saving the best for last, that's for damn sure.

The concept of saving the best for last was something I really took with me long after my t-ball days were over. It really made sense to me. It seemed like a good motto to live by.

However, it wasn't.

Yes, I didn't learn this until years after my t-ball hay-days. My jersey number, 0....yeah I forgot to mention that one...well, it wasn't just luck of the draw. And saving the best for last? Well, turns out I wasn't really on the team. They were just letting me hit once everyone else did. Nothing I did really mattered. All those "home runs?" Fake. Oh, and the cheering and yelling. It's true that there was cheering from the parents in the stands who knew the real deal, but the yelling from the opposing team's players...wasn't in support. I ignored their "but she didn't even touch the base" or "let me tag her coach" as I ran by them. I didn't pay attention to the coaches holding the other players back to keep them from tagging me with the ball. I was in my own world. High off of the saving the best for last glory of it all.