An Open Letter To The Coach That Ruined It For Me,
the coach that didn't believe in me,
the coach who broke me,
the coach who messed up,
the coach that took something from me that I cannot get back;
Four years later; I do not know how to forgive you. You made me hate a game that was once my life. Before you, I had drifted drastically from the game. From other bad coaches to bad umpires, from bloody noses to crying from the constant desire to win, I was distancing myself. But you took all the fight I had left in me. A game that gave me awkward tan-lines, a game that made my mouth sore from salt, a game that left countless bruises on my body, a game that made me happy, you turned into a battlefield where I was no longer against the other team, but I was against you, and more importantly, I was my own competitor.
My mental health was at an all-time low. The pressure from inside your dugout made me dread going to practice, made me anxious for game day, made me despise the uniform I wore. My grades suffered, my focus was scattered, and I was under 100 pounds. I looked to you for guidance and assistance, but I only found myself walking on eggshells to impress you, in hopes that I wouldn't get screamed at. Even when I did impress you, it wasn't enough. I remember tryouts so clearly. I remember sitting in my catcher's gear waiting to hear what you thought of me, caring so much what you thought of me. And I remember being nervous, I remember being nervous for... no reason. You loved me, you told me, I was loud, I was communicating, I was supportive, and even though, I was small, I could jump. I remember feeling so amazing after that talk, I remember doing better after that talk, I remember... getting put on JV. I remember getting put on JV, and although I was never cocky, I remember not belonging on JV. But I persisted. I "played" JV. I "played" three games, after being accustomed to playing every week since I was 5. I "played" in a position I didn't belong in, even when I practiced in my usual spots. I "played" for a coach that didn't believe in me.
After a year of unnecessary running, when we should've worked on playing as a team, after a year of having my confidence beaten with a metal bat, when we should've been lifting each other up, after a year of playing for you, I quit. I don't remember my last time on the field. I don't remember my last time singing warm-up chants. I don't remember my last time hitting a ball. I don't remember the last time I loved the game. Without realizing it, I stopped loving the game that was once part of my identification and began replacing it with your name.
I remember going to try-outs the next year, but I don't remember the defying moment when I gave up on myself. I remember you calling me down to your room when I told you I was quitting. I remember being told that I was a good ball-player, and that you wanted me on the team, and that... you made a mistake. So openly, you told me, "I was wrong," you told me, "I should've put you on Varsity. I should've gave you the playing time you deserved." I remember crying after I left your room that day, I remember knowing it was over, I remember letting go. I remember wishing it wasn't over for me, I remember wishing you wouldn't have made a mistake, I remember wishing you would've told me sooner, because in that moment, your apology wasn't enough for me anymore. Your apologies couldn't make me love a game that I have long forgotten about, the games I should've recorded to watch on repeat, and while my footprints have been raked off the field, I so badly wish I had bottled some of the dirt up before walking off, and I should've written down the songs we sang because my mind has a tendency to forget moments I no longer wish I remembered, and I should've swallowed my pride like I had been doing with sunflower seeds, and forgave you. Four years later, I do not know how to forgive you. Four years later, you're still coaching, hosting try-outs for girls I've never seen before, teaching a sport you have no business teaching. Four years later, I lost a part of me. Four years later, you're still the coach that ruined it for me.
Sincerely,
#6.
