Reflecting on Baseball

Every baseball-loving boy picks major-leaguers to impersonate, and I was no different. In my parents' backyard growing up, I emulated the batting stances and swings of Paul O'Neill and Dave Parker.* They were left-handed, and neither my dad nor my coaches ever turned me around to my natural side. Apparently, it never occured to me that right-handed might be a better option. T-ball, knothole, whiffleball, etc., I always hit left-handed.

Of course, as I've mentioned thousands of times in this space because I am scarred for life, I sucked at baseball. As much as I love the game, I couldn't hit to save my life. I had a fundamentally sound swing, but was unable to meet bat and ball. I think it was around 4th grade that my coach turned me around to hit right-handed. When I made contact, I hit the ball harder right-handed. But I made contact even less from the right side. Not long after this failed grand experiment, I retired from the game to little fanfare.

Fast forward to my budding softball career. At miscellaneous church picnics and youth events, I have mostly hit left-handed because it feels natural. But now that I am in a league, I have hit exclusively right-handed. Why, you ask?

I let the batting cage fence decide.

That's right. The cages near Farwick Field on Rt. 128 make it impossible for a left-hander to take a full swing without hitting the fencepost a follow-through. Meanwhile, right-handers can take a full cut, no problem. So, after a couple frustrating tokens worth of banging the fence, I turned around.

And I've been a right-hander ever since.

*Sidenote: Thankfully, as a wee elementary student, I chose right-hander Jose Rijo to mimic when being an imaginary pitcher throwing to my imaginary catcher, whom I referred to as "the garage door". I can't imagine how screwed up I'd be if I turned myself into a lefty.