Page 29 of Love at a Funeral and Other Awkward Conversations

The ball releases from the chute on the other end with a rattling shoop, and it flies right at me. I jump back.

“Don’t be afraid of it,” Vince says. “Hit it.”

“I’m not afraid.” I step back into position. “Just scared me.”

He laughs and mimes choking up on the bat, and by the time I’m situated in position, another ball has passed by me.

“Eye on the ball,” he says, and I take a swing at the next one. Miss.

And the next one, miss.

And the one after that.

I miss every single ball until the machine quiets at the other end. “This is so stupid.” I rip off my helmet. “What’s the point?”

“The point is to hit the ball.” He slides more coins into the machine. “Try again.”

I spin around as the balls start flying again. The first one hits the back of the net with a soft plunk and falls to the ground.

“You giving up? Already?” he calls out, goading me.

Growling, I put my helmet back on, then take my stance and focus on the machine at the other end, not taking my gaze off it. And the next time a ball comes at me, I swing the stupid bat as hard as I can and hit it. The white ball lobs up to the top of the netting almost straight above me.

Vince claps his hands a few feet away from me, but I don’t look at him. I keep focus and swing again. I hit the next ball.

I channel all my pent-up energy into it. My grasp on the bat slickens, my fingers holding on so tight, but I don’t stop. The clang of the bat meeting the ball is an audible echo for my anger. I yell out on the next swing. It’s barbaric, and I don’t care. I want to slam all of my rage into the ball and send it flying out into the atmosphere.

And when the balls finally stop coming, I drop the bat to my side, my arms and shoulders exhausted. Vince seems reasonably impressed. I nod at him. “I want to go again.”

He grins. “That’s what I like to hear.”

MARCH 11

I did something different today. I hit things. Balls, to be exact.

I am not what you would call athletically inclined, but something got into me tonight. Whether it was the Holy Spirit or the Devil, I’m not sure, but I stood in the batting cage for half an hour straight, swing after swing, hitting baseball after baseball. I didn’t think about anything else, except that small white thing flying at me and how good it felt to smack it away. But good isn’t the right word…it was euphoric. The rage normally trapped between my ribs, pinballing between my bones, didn’t have a place to go. It’s been seething inside me, my temper rising every day, until now. I was able to release, drive it from me, wind it up, and force it out with every swing. Until tonight, I never knew what it was like to hold a metal bat, have it reverberate in my hands off a hit. That vibration spread through my veins like a gong in a Buddhist temple. It was both violent and calming.

In bed tonight, I’m too tired to remember how sad and angry I am. And after these last few weeks, I’m glad for the reprieve, even if it means I worked up a sweat. At least I’m not fighting my tears tonight. Besides, there’s no crying in baseball, right?

#Grief #RaymondStGeorge #TheTurf #SmashedIt #ALeagueOfTheirOwn

CHAPTER 11

My last post with the picture of a bat and a ball has gotten even more comments, shares, and likes than the Nutella one. It’s earned me a couple more followers too. I click on the grief hashtag, curious about what else there is. It’s mostly sad quotes in pretty fonts and even sadder black-and-white photos.

My posts aren’t like that. They’re angry and frustrated and perhaps a little more real. Maybe it’s why people like them. Because grief isn’t always pretty fonts and stylized photos of a sunset or a gray sky over a beach.

It’s ugly and out of focus and changes on a daily basis.

And I type exactly that with a picture of my middle finger.

Just as I hit post, Mom asks if I’ll go with her to the store. I try to temper my shock and awe so as not to scare her away from the land of the living.

“Yeah, sure,” I say coolly and slip my feet into shoes. She waits at the front door for me, in her jacket, with her purse over her shoulder. She’s even showered and styled her hair. “You look good, Mom,” I tell her as we walk to my car.

She doesn’t acknowledge the compliment, probably because it’s not really one. After almost two months of darkness and sleep, I’m saying she looks like a real human instead of the lump of skin and bones she’s become.

I try to keep the conversation light in the car. I want to keep her talking, keep her conscious like they do in the movies, to prove to myself and her that she’s still with us. She’s still alive. She tells me she wants to make pork chops, green beans, and potatoes, something she’d normally make with her eyes closed.

---