Sport's Metaphor

My parents are like a haywire pitching machine and regardless of how prepared I think I am for what they are going to throw at me next, I am always caught off guard by a surprise curve ball.
* * *
I walk into the wire cage, helmet on, metal bat at the ready. I shove the quarter in the token machine and step into the batter’s box. I bend my knees slightly and begin my Nomar Garciapparaesque batting routine. One Hail Mary followed by a shake of the butt and a twist of my left wrist and I am ready to hi—
Shwiiiing, goes a 70mph fast ball right down the plate. I saw that one coming. I had time to prepare and yet I was still taken by surprise when it went whizzing past me.
* * *
My parent’s got divorced when I was seven years old. I knew it was coming. My earliest memories are of the two of them fighting in the kitchen and me crying and screaming to make them stop. I couldn’t have been more prepared for the day my Dad moved out. I honestly thought I would end up being happier once the fateful day came. It took me one week and one night spent at my Dad’s apartment without heating for me to realize that all the preparation in the world could not have saved me from the tears and the prayers for my parent’s to reconcile.
* * *
I step out of the batter’s box, brush off my hurt ego and get my head in the game. All I need to do is focus on the ball.
I do my Nomar routine outside of the box and then step in, bat just above my shoulder, grip tight, eye on the prize.
Cliiiiink. The sweet sound of metal hitting rawhide filled the cage. Line drive right back at the machine, punishing it for the previous pitch.
Cliiiiink. Cliiiiink. Cliiiiink. Rinse and repeat. Two more line drives and then a beautiful dinger that reached the outer edge of the batting cage fence.
I’m so ready to wail another one that I am in my stance for three good minutes before I realize my quarter was up.
* * *
Tears dry up and seven year olds are easily swayed with the fact that Santa Claus now comes to two chimneys. I got in a pattern of going between two houses. Playing Yahtzee with my Dad and brother in front of a space heater. Watching Food Network with my Mom on the living room couch. It became old news that my parent’s were divorced. It still stinks when they fight, and they still do, but I just got used to it and moved on.
* * *
Next quarter goes into the slot. I adjust my batting glove, get back in the zone and expect to hit knock the rawhide off of the—
OUCH. That is going to leave a bruise in the morning. I was walking into the box and the machine fired, shooting a curve ball right into my arm. I crawl to the side of the cage to inspect the damage.
What on Earth was the machine doing? I had no time to prepare for that. There was no way I wasn’t getting hit by that pitch.
* * *
I was fifteen years old when my “step dad” walked out on my mom, brother and I. He threatened to take the house out from under our feet and to leave us high and, monetarily and emotionally, dry.
Legally, he wasn’t my step dad. He was my mom’s boyfriend of eight years who had become like a second father to me. He illegally taught me to drive, he picked me up from late night rehearsals, I talked to him about boys.
But legally, none of that mattered to him. My mom hadn’t gotten divorced from my dad in the eyes of the Massachusetts court system meaning that Brian couldn’t marry my mother. So when he couldn’t get what he wanted, after eight years, he up and left without so much as a goodbye.
I have never been so hurt in my entire life. It was the surprise that hurt more than anything. One night we were chatting over buffalo tenders at a nearby restaurant and the next he was gone, never to be seen again.
* * *
I am determined to show this machine who is boss. I stand up again, arm is throbbing with pain, dried tears cake my face but I am angry and on a mission. I step into the batters box, assume the stance and wait. It feels like hours and I am just getting angrier so I turn to the machine, chest directly over the plate, ready to scream—
Whomph. The ball flies directly into my stomach. I fly directly onto the pavement. I start writhing to catch my breath. This machine has it out for me.
* * *
My step dad left in November of my sophomore year and my dad announced his marriage the following month. He was marrying a Canadian national in Toronto in June.
First of all, worse timing in the world. Second of all, Canada. But I grinned and bared everything down to the gold heels and putrid hot pink bride’s maid dress I had to wear.
Those were the worst seven months of my life. I cried a lot when I was alone. Never told my friends what was going on because I couldn’t bear to admit the fact that it was all real.
* * *
This time I am livid. I am still crying and gasping for air. I can barely hold the bat above my shoulder but there is still a ball or two left on my quarter.
I do my Nomar routine once more but this time it is intermittent with sobs. I step into the batter’s box, ready to prove that I am stronger than the machine.
Bleary eyes on the prize, bat resting gently on my sore shoulder and then—
CLIIIIINK. A pop fly down the center field line. Its beautiful arch sends the ball flying from the bat and to the pitching machine, which it hits with a satisfying thud.