It all started on the Little League fields by my house. I was a pretty busy kid. I participated in competitive dance, soccer, basketball, and other extracurricular activities that your typical elementary-aged kids did. Then, my parents did something that I can never thank them enough for. They signed me up for Tee Ball.
On my first day of practice, I was shuffled out the door in my super cool Sketchers sneakers and practice T-shirt – undoubtedly with some sort of heinous turtleneck on under it because my mom would not let me out of the house without warm clothing on. I arrived at Tee Ball still unsure of what I — or rather my parents — had gotten me into.
All I knew is that I had a new glove that was approximately the size of my entire torso strapped to my hand. Little did I know that that chestnut colored piece of leather, on which my Dad had proudly written the first three letters of my last name “GiL,” would become part of me. That nickname, Gil, would become what I was lovingly referred to by teammates, coaches, and spectators alike.
Unlike some love stories, this one started off a little shaky. When I got to my first Tee Ball practice, I was one of two girls. I was promised there would be two other girls. Though this seems like a silly thing to be upset over, being a young girl, this was a tragedy. I finished that season, mainly because my parents weren’t about to raise their first child together as a quitter, and told myself I would never play that sport — or any related sport – ever again.
Then, sure enough, softball sign-ups came around. Then, sure enough, I was registered to play. At first, it was something fun to do with all of my friends. Throughout the years, the amount of girls who played ball decreased. All of a sudden I was known as “the girl who played on three softball teams.”
There was rec ball, then came All-Stars for the girls talented enough to make the cut and willing to dedicate their summer to it, then came travel ball, then came school ball when we were old enough. Eventually, my friends who I used to play with became my supporters on the sidelines. I outgrew my local travel team and branched out to playing on one based in New York.
My love for softball wasn’t something that was constant throughout my entire young adulthood, though. At one point, somewhere in the midst of the awkward middle school years, I seriously considered quitting. I wanted to be a normal girl. I wanted to spend summers with my non-softball-playing friends. I wanted to be home for the Fourth of July. I wanted to go to birthday parties and go camping on weekends. I was sick of being out of the state five out of seven days of the week. I had hit a wall.
When I had discussed this with my parents, I got a wake-up call. The question they posed was: Why have I dedicated so much time to something, just to quit? I didn’t know. It’s not like I didn’t like playing anymore. I just thought other things sounded more appealing. But why did I really want to quit? I didn’t have an answer. So I pushed through the wall.
I plunged so deep into softball that I think some of my friends never thought I’d spend time with them again. I made it work. I struggled through numerous slumps of varying degrees and lengths. Then I struggled again through the recruiting process. I made it.
Just when I thought I couldn’t fall any further in love with the game, I did. Some people would get sick of something after doing it for upwards of five hours a day almost every day — and I do have days where my love is unstable — but, at the end of the day, it never fails.
The love for softball is dripping in sweat, waking up in early in the morning to run until you can’t feel your legs. The love for softball is swinging until your blisters have blisters. The love for softball is not giving up when you don’t get a hit in a game. The love for softball is that little girl with that big glove and the smile and the shivers that she gets now when her name is announced and her walk-up song comes on the loudspeakers.
