21. Grandfather

My grandfather was very tall but he had the kindest eyes. I remember always having this connection with him. My dad used to say the quickest way to calm me down when I was a baby was to put me in his arms.

Before my parents got divorced, we used to hold baseball games in my back yard. My mom would cook on the grill for everyone. All the older folk would sit around in these plastic chairs, drink out of solo cups and talk about the war, except my grandfather. He was always the umpire.

I was the youngest by a few years, and though I was far from shy, I was content to watch from the sidelines. That, and my big brother who was typically inclusive told me specifically I couldn't play.

"Jessie, why don't you have at bat?" my grandfather asked me.

"No, I'm too little." I replied.

"Who told you that?"

"James and the other big kids."

My grandfather was having none of that.

While he knew he could order the crew to let me play, he was a man of respect and reason, so he asked instead.  They agreed to let me have one turn.

He bent behind me to help hold the bat as it was still too heavy. With a twinkle in his eye he said,

"Jessie, I bet you can get a home run."
"No I can't, Papa!" I jolted back with an attitude.
"Yes you can," he said. " I know you can."

With that, my brother threw his first pitch. Strike one. The kids quietly laughed.
Second pitch. Strike two.

"I told you she couldn't play!" my brother argued, feeling embarrassed from his friends for agreeing with the old mans request.

"They're going to laugh if I strike out again!" I whined.

"Don't focus on them," he said, "just you and the ball. Don't let jerks ruin your focus."

With that, the ball left my brother's fingers for the third pitch and I felt the bat connect to it. The ball went up and over the fence into my neighbor's yard. The kids that were laughing grew silent. My brother smiled.

I stood there in shock for a moment before my grandfather screamed for me to run. He caught his little grand baby at home plate and kissed me on the forehead after a great big hug.

He died of Parkinsons when I was 7. My dad later told me that the last thing his dad ever said to him was,

"Watch out for my little one, ok?"