Shortstop

Abstract

Shortstop Kat Williams (bio) No borders, just horizons—only freedom. —Amelia Earhart At the end of the school day, the ring of the two o'clock bell was beautiful music. That meant the real day was about to begin, at least in my young mind. I raced to the bus as if getting there first would make it leave faster. At home, I ran straight to my room to change out of the dress my mother forced me into that morning and into my pants, T-shirt, and tennis shoes. Dressed as close to a ballplayer as I could get, I set off to find my neighborhood team. All boys. In addition to being friends, most were also classmates. They had just spent hours at school ignoring a shy, unconfident girl. Now they stood around me asking, "Can I be on your team?" "Who is going to pitch today?" "Can I play first?" Ah, finally. I'm where I belong, where I am good, confident, in charge. Where I can be me. On a baseball diamond. When I was a kid, sports, specifically baseball, gave me a place to be. There are people for whom solitude and walking through life on a separate path is preferred, but at one time or another, most of us want to fit in. Acceptance is the special mirror that reflects back to us a reassuring nod or smile, letting us know we are on the right track. Without that, only disapproval and distress come our way. We will often change our looks, our humor, and even our personalities to be part of a group we admire or envy. For those of us who are not blessed with wealth, good looks, superb intelligence, musical or artistic talent, or a brilliant sense of humor, fitting in is hard. And until we find even one place where we fit, feel safe, and even excel, life is almost unbearable. I grew up poor. I was a tomboy with a learning disability. I was an easy target for bullying. Since school and my appearance were unimportant to me, I did little to comply with societal expectations. As children, most of us are unable to understand complicated feelings, but I was aware of an obnoxious record playing on a loop inside my head: "there will always be something [End Page 97] wrong with you." I had an inner sense that no matter what I did on the outside, the inside would never change. On the surface, some of my childhood friends seemed to have everything going for them. Later it was clear that that was only a gilded façade. But at the time, given my muddy-faced, scraggly-haired, tornclothed, wild-eyed appearance, I believed I had nothing going for me. If you don't count luck, stubbornness, and baseball. Long before September 11 came to evoke a sigh and a shake of the head, the day was just my birthday. I was born in Valley Station, a working-class suburb of Louisville, Kentucky. My parents, TJ and Sara, were also born there, as were both my sisters. By the time he was sixteen my dad was working as an auto mechanic, and I don't think he missed too many days of work between then and the day he retired. When Mom was eight and my aunt was nine, they were orphaned. Because my mother was so keenly aware of how quickly people could disappear, family connections were always important to her. When my Uncle Hudnal was left alone with his five children, Mom, Dad, and I moved in so that Mom could take care of all eight of us, which she did in a house without an indoor bathroom. For me, a little kid surrounded by five older kids, life was great. My favorite memories of living there involve playing in the vast yard. Some of the games we played were real ones, and some I'm pretty sure my cousins made up as we went along. The boys played football a lot and as a child I did not understand why I wasn't allowed to play too. The girls only watched as they threw the...