Poema by Anne

In baseball, I believe a hitter's confidence is key, and that sometimes his thoughts are mightier than his bat.
Some fall victim to the "dark cloud": believing you've failed before you actually have. Sometimes this is also called "stinkin' thinkin'." I stand guilty of this mentality.
But,
I have a sweet friend who, after I strike out in slow-pitch softball, gently tousles my hair after I mutter an ugly word on accident because I am mad that I swung at bad pitches.
There was a runner on third base and we were down by two runs and a base hit would have changed the whole game (in theory) . In my uncharacteristic fury, he tells me that, in the morning, this momentary failure will be inconsequential, and he tells me not to listen to the voices in my head that say I'm an easy out or that I am terrible at this game or that I am nothing that a disappointment. This friend tells me that I am worthwhile and that I should stop comparing myself to others and that I should stop comparing myself to the softball player that I was ten years ago when I was a decent athlete with resolute determination.
That athlete once wanted to catch a foul ball so badly that she ran into a fence with all of her might, thus smashing her metatarsals to fragments.
That aforementioned friend still took me to prom that year despite my transient handicap, so I hobbled around a hotel ballroom in an ivory gown-- I decorated my crutches, even. I still remember a teacher asking me if I wanted to go to prom because of my injury. In my head I thought, "of course"; out loud I said "I guess so." Sometimes I don't speak aloud the extent of what I am thinking.
That broken foot and prom date was 9 years ago, in May.
Some things I thought I had left far behind in my past have actually met me in my present.
I didn't think the determined, hustling athlete remained in me; I didn't think I was capable of that competitive fierceness anymore; those voices of self-doubt on the playing field had long since disappeared (until that moment last night).
I also didn't think that sweet person who befriended the girl with the broken foot would set his gentle hand on my head, tousle my hair, touch my cheek, and tell me that strikeouts don't matter and that they'll be long-forgotten in the morning. With that, he hands me my glove and I run to the outfield (staying clear of any fences that can apparently break feet).
The dark cloud dissipates for now, but I try to talk to God in the outfield so that I don't screw up anymore.
He tells me that screwing up in softball does not equate to screwing up in life.
So then I decide to talk to God about all of my other recent and not so recent screw-ups.
He tells me, "as far as the east is from the west."
God forgets our strike-outs too:
Imagine that.