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AN AHTLETE'S PRIDE
"I'm a high school player.
I'm a team player.
I play with my friends and with some of my enemies,
but I respect everyone when it comes to my sports.
I know I'm not going to get a multi-million dollar contract
to play professionally. I know I may not even get my name
in the paper. I play for the love of the game. For the pride
and honor, for the blood, sweat, and tears it takes to make
the team, to earn the sport, to win the game.
I play because I can, I play because I know the my life would be
empty without the sport I play. I would have a lack of everything my
sport gives me...integrity, courage, talent, fearlessness, pride,
strength, stamina, will, and the heart of a champion. If I didn't play,
I would lose a part of me.
I'm an athlete.
I'm a girl.
I'm a champion, not because my team always wins, but because when
we don't, we learn from our mistakes. We try to fix them, and most of all,
because we have fun.
I have built lifelong friendships and memories because of my being
an athlete.
I leave everything on the field and continue to push myself. I am never
happy with second place, but I have learned to accept it.
I have learned to get over and through my anger and be the athlete
and player I have always dreamed of being.
I don't play for my parents, for my family, for my friends; I don't play
for my coach or my teachers or my school. I play for myself, but when
I'm playing I represent them.
It isn't about winning or losing, but I hate to lose, I won't settle for a
tie, and I'm not satisfied with 100%.
To play you have to sacrifice everything, your body, your time, your
sweat, blood, and tears, everything...for your team.
I am a player and an athlete and a champion, not because I know
what it is like to win, but because I know what it is like to lose.
I know what it is like to feel the anger and pain that comes along
with "second best." I have been that girl with tears in her eyes,
walking our to receive the second place trophy and clapping as
the other team, my opponents, receive the first place one.
I know what it is like to hear the cheers and yells for you.
I know what it is like to feel the pressure of everyone on your
shoulders, and I know what it is like to choke under that pressure.
I know what it means to be an athlete, a true player, and that
is why I play.
I am an athlete, a champion, a true player."
THE FASTPITCH PLAYER
At one time she looked cute as a button dressed in pink with ponytails. She had tea parties with her stuffed animals, dolls and helped mom bake cookies. She has been and will always be Daddy's Little Girl. Today the fastpitch player still has the same little girl attributes. The only difference is she looks cute in her sliders and shorts. If she's wearing ribbons in her hair, they're the team colors. She has become Mommy and Daddy's "Little Hitter'.
The fastpitch player is proud of how dirty she can get. On a family outing she takes up to an hour primping to get ready and still feels somewhat self-conscious. However between tournament games she'll strut into any restaurant with dirt across her face, nasty sweaty hair, torn shirt, bloody knees, and brown socks that used to be white. She'll yell "Let' Eat!".
The fastpitch player typically has a large wardrobe. She has several old uniforms which she has outgrown but not thrown out because "you never know". She has several hundred t-shirts from camps, clinics, and tournaments. When her parent's ask her to wear something "nice" she wears stuff from regional or national events.
The fastpitch player needs to get a scholarship, because her parent's are broke spending thousands of dollars paying for camps, batting, pitching, and catching lessons. Also don' forget about the hotels, restaurants, and entertainment.
The fastpitch player is a fierce competitor. She is willing to stand 35' away from a pitcher and take a pitch with a reaction time that even a major leaguer would struggle to hit. She might only be 5' 95 lbs (soaking wet) but, she'll charge down from 3rd daring the batter to drive the ball by her so she can score the run they badly need.
The fastpitch player has more spirit than any other sport. She'll go home hoarse from cheering her team on into the final innings. She play's the sport for all the right reasons, "she love's the game". She could spend the week-end's watching tv, or out at the arcades or mall, but she chooses to spend her week-ends in the 100 degrees heat, waiting to get in the game.
Finally the fastpitch player is dedicated and hard working. She understand's that what you get out of something depend's on what you put into it. She is competitive and doesn't give up easily. She learns teamwork and spirit Most of all she learns to respect all, but fear none!
Alone at the Plate
She pulls on the helmet, picks up the bat and walks to the plate, "gotta hit and that's that".
The crowd starts to yell, the game's on the line, last inning, two outs, the score's nine to nine.
Dad yells, "go get it," Mom wrings her hands, coach hollers, "hit it" but alone there she stands.
Heroes are made in seconds such as this, but she's just a little girl, what if she should miss?
Years after this game's ended and she's little no more,
will she remember the outcome or even the score?
No she'll have forgotten if she was out, hit, or a run,
she'll only look back on her friends and the fun.
So cheer this girl on, alone with her fate;
help her remember with fondness, this stand at the plate.
Spend your time wisely and help in her quest
to be a hitter with confidence and always her best.
And when the game's over, this girl can stand tall,
for you helped her prepare to give it her all!
COACH'S CREED 1997 | | |
Softball......
This morning I passed a park on my way to work. I've walked this route hundreds of times before, but this morning is different. The sun casts familiar, long shadows on the ground and draws my eyes to an ill-kept inner-city baseball field across the park. Really just a rusty back stop set against the vague outline of a dirt infield. I usually avert my eyes and woefully shake my head at it.
This morning though, as I look at the field through the shadows, the fresh smell of morning dew on the grass combines with the damp, early-morning summer chill to bring on a flood of memories.
And even though it's been a solid year since I've played competitively, the slightly hazy fog over the field brings me back to early Saturday and Sunday morning summer softball.
Waking up at 6:30 a.m. I fall into the backseat behind my parents, hoping I'm not forgetting something in my drowsy state. I use the car ride to finish waking up and to begin visualization exercises.
When we arrive at the fields, we're one of the first cars there. We climb out of our seats, slowly stretching and letting out one final yawn. As we walk toward the field the dew on the grass dampens my socks. A thin mist shrouds the park and the entire complex seems to glow in the soft morning light.
My mom sits in the bleachers to read until the game starts. My dad puts my equipment down next to the bench and stands on the field for a minute before he begins his inspection of the diamond. He breathes in the morning air, both of us thinking about the day ahead and wondering what it will bring. He walks the field then comes over to the dugout and pulls his mitt out of my bag. He stands inside the fence and I go stand next to him.
And on this walk to work, where I experience conditions so rare in themiddle of Chicago, I cannot help but think that this morning was just for me. To remind me why I love the game. To remind me why I devoted so much time and effort to it. To remind me of the memories that really stick with you --which ones really matter.
Like bringing in the winning run in extra innings when the pitcher intentionally walked the leadoff batter to pitch to you is something you tell your kids about.
But that's not what really makes the game a part of you.
It's that moment before the umpires arrive and you're pulling on yourcleats, wondering how they can be more comfortable than slippers.
It's slipping on your mitt for the first time that day and feeling like you've just been reunited with your best friend even though it's only been twelve hours since you last wore it.
It's that first practice swing of the bat when, despite the fact that it's only twenty-eight ounces of aluminum, your muscles still scream from working so hard the day before.
But for me, it's walking onto the field to join my pops. Hands on ourhips, we take in the morning. He lifts his cap, runs his fingers through his thick salt-and-pepper hair, and adjusts his lucky-when-we're-less-than-fifty-miles-from-home-and-its-not-raining hat. He pulls his sunglasses from his collar and carefully polishes the lenses with his shirt before putting them on. He bends over, picks up a ball and flips it to me in one fluid motion."Ready?" He asks.And we play catch.
Together.
Tuesday, June 27
Softball by Tara Ketchem
There's nothing like it in the world,
To be out there in the field,
To catch a pop fly and get the last out,
To dive for the catch,
Getting grass stains on your knees.
There's nothing like it in the world,
To be the next at bat, two outs, bases loaded,
To smack the ball out to the fence,
To slide into home,
Hearing the ump scream,"SAFE!"
There's nothing like it in the world,
To be the pitcher,
Strike one and two,
Then comes three,
The whole game, you pitched a no hitter!
There's nothing like it in the world,
To be out in the field,
To miss the pop fly,
To dive for the ball,
But you miss it and can't get up fast enough.
There's nothing like it in the world,
To be the next at bat, two outs, bases loaded,
To swing at a pitch way over your head,
To swing at the one almost rolling on the ground,
To get the third out and let your team down.
There's nothing like it in the world,
To be the pitcher,
Ball one and two,
Then three and four,
Walking the batters till the coach takes you out.
There's nothing like it in the world,
To be on either side,
Adrenaline pumping throughout your body,
To win, to lose,
There's nothing like it in the world.
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