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Caroline King

An American Pastime

A girl of eleven or twelve and a man who had to be her father were the first to arrive at

the softball fields. He had an oversized lumpy bag tossed over one shoulder and walked a few

steps ahead of her. She followed, dragging a child-sized bat behind her through the gravel

parking lot. It wasnt until they had almost reached the dugout that he turned around and curtly

muttered to her before turning his attention to unpacking the gear. She said nothing in return, but

immediately her posture dropped, her face vanishing beneath the brim of a pink hat. While he

busily tidied up the dugout, she turned her small bat with both hands, focusing on its steady roll

as if its movements were beyond her control.

Now other girls were making their way over from the parking lot, a mass of pink caps

and black knee socks. The back of their fluorescent pink tees said in bold: THE KATYDIDS. All

the girls teams that year were named after bugs. The other team, the Grasshoppers, had yet to

arrive, leaving the Katydids ample time for mingling and pre-game juice boxes.

After a little while, the coach requested the attention of his players. Eight little ball caps

turned from their positions on the bench towards the front of the dugout to the man with the

clipboard. He was short yet stocky in build, with a robust belly accentuated by his tucked-in tee.

He waited, hands in pockets, for the last giggles and whispers to fade, and, once confident all

attention was on him, began his litany of pointers. Remember to swing evenly, watch the ball the

entire way, dont get distracted by your mommies and daddies cheering for you. It wasnt long

before the girls had lost interest and begun to fidget and daze.

All but one. The coachs daughter, sitting furthest away from him at the end of the bench

opposite the dugout entrance, remained fixated on her father. It was a peculiar look to be sure. It
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Caroline King

wasnt admiration or respect, resentment or dislike, but confusion. There was something she was

trying to understand about this man. His eyes never met hers.

Once the other team had arrived and both coaches had conferred with the scrawny teen

umpire, the girls began to scramble into order. The Katydids were up to bat first. Coach

beckoned the first batter to the plate. After brief hesitation, she kicked the dirt around a little

before assuming her awkward stance at the plate. Strike. Her friends encouraged her. Coach

silenced them with a hand. Strike. Strike. She shrugged and skipped back to the dugout to

resume conversation. Making her way to the end of the bench, she slapped hands with her

teammates as she passed. She paused in front of the Coachs daughter. Placing her hands on her

hips, she nodded crisply at the other girl, accompanied by a smile that was essentially a wink.

Tugging a wilted weed out from behind her ear, she placed it in the sweaty palm of her friend.

Dont worry bout hitting it.

Another out. In the meantime, an unfortunate juice box accident had sent three girls to the

bathroom, leaving only two girls between her and her turn at home plate. She was continually

peeking over her shoulder at the bathroom door, waiting for the missing girls to swing it open

and take their spots in front of her.

The clink of a successful hit sent her turning slowly back around to face the field. The

benched players watched their teammate run. The Coachs Daughter, however, watched her

father watch. The next girl in line made her way to home plate, taking her time in order to locate

her family in the stands. She waved at them enthusiastically before preparing to bat. Clink.

Everyone cheered.

Coachs Daughter was up.

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Caroline King

Reaching for her bat she simultaneously glanced again over her shoulder at the bathroom.

Two of the girls, tees wet after failed attempts to clean the juice, burst out the door in a fit of

giggles. As they made their way back to the dugout, Coachs Daughter pointed to them hurriedly.

Coach, sighing, held his daughters gaze for several painful seconds.

Inwardly I begged for him to offer a smile of encouragement, and my heart sank when he

instead looked away. What I know of this pair is limited to observations from a single softball

game, but from what I can saw: the Daughter seemed to care nothing about the game being

played while the Father cared nothing about her lack of care. The Coach called to the returning

girls to hurry. The game went on, and the Katydids won. The team was to go out for pizza to

celebrate. All the girls went but one.