The diamond. According to society it's a girl's best friend.
This is 100% true.
I have to catch you there, though, because I'm not talking about the sparkly rock. The diamond I dream about is the baseball field. That unattainable space of sand, lime, grass and glory where history is made and curses are broken.
To me, life is like baseball. Everything is a metaphor to the game. And if you don't believe me I'll give you an example.
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Introducing: The Diamond Stages to Romance.
- At Bat: Congratulations, your turn was successful and you have a hit! Now go forth and make a run of it, champ.
- First Base: Here is where you hold hands and worry about whether your palm sweat is grossing the other person out. And why do palms have to sweat, anyway? Isn't it enough with armpits?
- Second Base: Not only do you get a pretty great view of the diamond, your team mates and audience, but this is where you have that magical moment where you get closer to that special person, and you start breathing in the same hot and humid air that is actually CO2 and that in high concentrations is poisonous — and hey, this might actually be poison coursing through your veins right now because suddenly you feel like air is not making it into your lungs anymore, and you're light headed and your heart is running as if it were your feet the ones doing the running, even though you know they're planted firmly on this base and then... and then, your lips meet and the announcer overhead lets everybody know the game is definitely getting exciting now.
- Third Base: And so you keep going forward and touch third base, because you have one job, one goal. And you feel hands coming to meet you and you send yours out for scouting new territories as well, and what you discover fascinates you and weirds you out a little bit. Some people have bats in their pants, after all.
- Home: The crowd is going crazy, you are going crazy. Home is right on sight, and it's both scary and exhilarating and when you look back you wonder, did it really take that long to get all the way here? But there you are, and you're ready. You've been preparing yourself for the exact moment your foot touches home, and all the emotions come rushing at you at the same time as the blood rushes and... Oh. Yes. Oh, yes!
You: 1.
World: Who cares.
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Not convinced yet? Okay, you can test me. Here goes.
A birth could be described like: baby's out of the dugout.
You did really badly in that AP Math pop quiz, and if your mom finds out she won't take you shopping today for that gorgeous prom dress you saw at the mall. In such case, your count is 3:2*.
*Three balls and two strikes. You're both on the verge of glory and disaster.
A tragedy is... a called game.
(These all would make fine Hallmark cards, by the way. If interested, please call my agent.)
What you really need to know about me is that one baseball allegory defines who I am. As soon as you're out of the birth dugout and the world realizes that you don't have dangly bits between your legs, you, as a batter, are out. Three strikes even before your first wails hit the eardrums of the witnesses. The fact that you're a girl means that your baseball career is over before it begins, and you're relegated to the role of spectator or muse at best. The diamond is your best friend but is not made to be yours.
That's so melodramatic, you say. There's softball for women, you also say.
All fair comments that fail to account for a single question: Why do I have to settle?
I've asked myself this question since I was a kid. I joined the pee wee league of the neighborhood since I could hold a bat. And I was the best. At bat, at catching, at pitching, you name it. I could run like the best of them and I was not afraid to slide to base like a boulder just as long as I could put my team in the game. Then I grew up and it became impossible to hide my growing boobs and the fact that suddenly I wasn't as fast, as strong. The first time someone suggested I switch to softball, I remember that it almost made me hate being a girl.
But the walls of my room were papered with posters of players, printouts of incredible plays and logos of professional teams. It was too late, baseball was my life and I wouldn't give it up.
To make matters worse, I grew up next door to the Miranda brothers. Our collective love for baseball was inspired by our dads, one Domingo Miranda and one Cliff O'Hare. (Just so you know, the latter is my dad.) Our families moved into this quiet middle class neighborhood near downtown Orlando, Florida, at around the same time. Our dads bumped into each other when picking up the mail, saying polite hello and have a good day, and they thought that would be it. Until Domingo saw my dad wearing the full baseball regalia result of being the local high school baseball coach, sparking a conversation between them that ended in all three of their kids joining the same neighborhood pee wee team. They raised us into the same kind of values. Love the game, even if you suck at it.
Except the Miranda boys were freaking geniuses.
Domingo loves telling the story of how his eldest, Sebastian, picked up his first baseball at eight months old with a perfect eagle grip. Granted, it was a soft, stuffed toy baseball, but the makings of a legend were there. Or the other story, of how he threw a fastball at his dad's waiting glove when he was seven years old, and Domingo's hand burned for the rest of the day.
Less sung about, the younger Miranda boy, Santiago, had his first at bat in public during a pee wee game, and he batted the ball out of the park, across the street and presumably into a sewer, because no one saw that ball again. Then little Santiago forgot to round the bases to home and instead he grabbed his things and went to his actual home. He was nine years old and should have known better, especially because I kept screaming at him to bring it home from the dugout. Maybe he misunderstood.
The three of us used to play in our backyard. Sebastian pitching while I was catcher and Santiago batting, until they started to grow like fungus and Seb's pitches suddenly started to resemble war missiles. Santi and I switched, but I still struggled with Seb's pitches like my body was too slow and cumbersome to react to even gracing them with my bat. I trained and trained and still I couldn't compete with them anymore. I couldn't play.
I became a spectator.
I saw them train. I saw them recover from injury. I saw them triumph or lose. I saw them get into the car together before they were T-boned. I saw Seb die in the hospital. And I saw Santi's eyes drain of life and fight every day after the funeral.
But the game goes on even through the rain. I, Peyton O'Hare, can't play it. But it doesn't mean I can't participate in it. I won't just sit on the bleachers and watch the game go to shit, and if I can rein it in and win, Santiago will understand that too.
The game is not called until there's a winner, and whoever has the most determination gets the W. And you'll see, I have determination in spades.
here's a funny story: i'm not a baseball fan. at all. even though i was born and raised in a country that breathes and bleeds baseball. so, much as i tried to avoid it, it just became a part of my life in weird ways. this story is the love child of baseball floating around in the back of my head and mingling with other things: high school dramas, hot latino boys, a determined heroine! and uh, Orlando, FL.
DISCLAIMERS:
also there may or may not be spicy turns of events in this story, none of which will be shown going all the way home, but there will definitely be the use of colorful language. be forewarned.
last but not least, some important intel:
- do not steal my work.
- do be a decent human in comments.
- enjoy!
This body of work is available exclusively on Wattpad (W a t t p a d / WP / The orange website). Novelhd (N o v el h d), has illegally stolen this work and refuses to acknowledge take down requests. If you are reading it there, you are at severe risk of malware.