One With The Boys

All her heroes were boys. Men. By default, not choice. She grew up watching boys play sports, tried to hone in and keep up with the bullies. Eventually she found her place. She threw a ball better than most of them. Isla was coordinated, creative, and awkwardly tall for her age. By 11 years old she was 5'9" with a size 10 shoe. She hated basketball, though. Volleyball made more sense but her heart lay in baseball. Hardball not softball. At first they refused: no girls allowed. It's too dangerous. You can't get around on the ball fast enough. You're too slow, not strong enough. You're going to get hurt. They would let her practice in pick up games, bury her in right field on a day when the occasional ball might come her way. But when Devin tore his hamstring and they needed her on second, Isla rose to the occasion, beyond even her own expectations. Everything suddenly made sense. Kismet, maybe. Her spatial understanding of where to field, how to work the bag, jostle a runner, catch the cut off and nail the throw to first and home. Fearlessness and proprioception took over. She'd ride her banana seat low rider to practice, with rainbow streamers exploding from her handlebars, her orange nylon Hang Ten knapsack bursting at the seams stuffed with hand me down cleats, her dad's old glove and a sweat stained Red Sox cap. The next day they let Isla bat. It wasn't easy but after a few balls she got around on a low slider and ripped it up the middle, finding some green. The boys stood and stared, gobsmacked. Isla paused then dropped the bat and tore around first to second and while cornering for third Chris finally woke up and tried to tag her out as she slid under his outstretched glove. Safe. Home, even if it was only a triple. Isla was home. No one said anything. Coach called her back to the bench, patted her shoulder and just nodded his head. He tossed her a spare jersey. Nice hit, solid running. Friday. Show up, we'll see how it looks. Isla bunched the shirt in her hands, grinning ear to ear, trying to stop vibrating with excitement. Finally. Number 12. Hers.

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