3 Strikes
I step out of the dug out and I’m blinded by the stadium lights.
The umpire looks me square in my eye and he screams at the top of his lungs: "STRIKE TWO"
Strike two?!
What did I do?
Where did I go wrong?
What was strike one?!
I can’t seem to recall a thing.
I don’t know how I got here or why I’m playing baseball.
I hate baseball.
I look back at my dad
....I mean my coach.
I see tears run down his face like rivers that flow from bottomless oceans of love and pain.
Pain.
It seems to be the only memory I have right now.
Suddenly, I’m reminded of a conversation I had with my coach one day during training:
Strike one.
Strike one will be because when the SUN hits your skin, it glows brighter than ever, reflecting the light that the SON placed within you.
Strike two.
Strike two will be because every breath you take is like a prophetic wind warning them that your freedom will lay siege to their monuments of privilege and bondage.
Strike three could be anything.
A toy gun.
A water bottle.
A twitch.
A smart remark.
Your job is to never hear the words: “YOU’RE OUT!”
“Keep the bat above your shoulders, swing as hard as you can and run back to home base.”
I march to the cadence of my ever-increasing heartbeat as I approach the home plate.
I don't know why but the people here don't seem to want me on the field.
I think that’s the one thing we have in common. Again, I hate baseball.
It doesn’t make sense though.
They must have been the ones to steal
...I mean pay, for me to be here.
I can hear their cheers.
They’re deafening, drowning out the sound of my pulse.
“HE DESERVES IT, CAN’T YOU SEE HIM RESISTING!”
“ONLY A CRIMINAL WOULD BE IN A POSITION LIKE THAT!”
I lift my hands
...I mean my bat above my shoulders.
My palms are sweaty.
My whole body starts to tremble like the earth beneath me is shaking.
I look straight ahead.
The pitcher has this smirk on his face.
He’s enjoying this.
After all, he’s getting paid for this.
His badge
...I mean his team logo, has this glare to it that my eyes can’t seem to escape.
“Run back to home base.”
The words of my coach jolt me back to attention.
This is it. I’m ready. I’ll make it back safely.
Everything seems to slow down.
The pitcher cocks his gun
...I mean his arm.
A second starts to feel like a century
or maybe four.
I tightly grip my bat.
I can feel the sweat creeping down my face by the millimeter.
A droplet enters my eye. It stings.
Like a bad reflex,
My left hand involuntarily goes to wipe my eye.
My right hand, along with the bat, drop to my waist.
The pitcher has found his moment to shine.
I don’t know if it’s the sweat or the tears in my eyes but the baseball flying towards me is starting to look like a bullet.
It hits my chest.
The stadium lights are flashing blue and red.
The grass turns into gravel.
I fall to my knees.
Then, my face hits the ground.
My eyes start to close against my will as I lay in the warmth of my own blood.
I guess I won’t make it back to home base.
“YOU’RE OUT!” the umpire yells.
It makes sense now, killing
....I mean baseball is their favorite pastime.
I hate baseball.
“Our problem is one of complete captivity from birth to death, and coercion as the starting point of our interactions with the State and with ordinary white citizens.”
