Born Under The Lights
Grace Alatalo
My brother steps up to the plate with steady strides.
I don’t understand baseball. To me, the subtle complexities of the game played on that diamond-shaped field are foreign. I don’t know why the endless repetition of the nine-inning match isn’t welcomed in my head. What I do know is that on October 14, 2012 – the same day the Yankees lost Game Two of the ALCS to the Tigers – my little brother was born. I became a big sister, and since then, my outlook on baseball hasn’t been the same.
He swings, and the bat meets the air, strike one.
The Yankees went on to lose all four games to the Tigers that year, failing to make it to the World Series. To the typical Boston Red Sox fan, this might seem irrelevant. But my brother is anything but typical. He’s been a Yankees fanatic for as long as I can remember, whether that be to spite my Red Sox-loving dad or out of pure admiration for the players.
He fouls it off, strike two.
I hate the Yankees. For those of us living a mere hour away from the heart of Boston influence, it’s a common occurrence. My dad agrees. My mom does too, for the most part. But if it came down to it, she wouldn’t help me burn my brother’s Yankee gear. My brother is the anomaly. He’s been surrounded by Red Sox fans his whole life, yet he still beat the odds and fell in love with their greatest rival.
He makes contact with the ball and it soars past the right-fielder.
The baseball I know comes from my brother. He can tell you any statistic about any player with eerily precise numbers. He has hundreds of baseball cards, kept somewhat neat and pristine in a somewhat organized binder. One of those cards is my favorite: Coco Crisp. The name rolls right off the tongue. And once, when I mentioned the player in conversation, amusement sparkled in his eyes. I must’ve sounded ridiculous, but to be allowed into his secret world, even for a moment, was worth it.
He rounds second, one step closer to scoring.
I see the joy I hold reflected in my parents when they watch him play. I see the concern creasing my mom’s brow when my brother makes a risky gamble on the field. I see the pride lifting the corners of my dad’s mouth as my brother crosses home plate. And I see myself, watching in amazement as this person I’m related to absorbs every aspect of the game he loves.
He slides into home plate, just ahead of the catcher’s reach.
My brother is the best baseball player I know. He dreams of playing in the major leagues, and I believe he can get there. The little kid who walked off the t-ball field at age 5, swearing he would never touch a glove again, has grown into a dedicated player. I admire him more than words allow. I might not know baseball, but my brother knows enough for both of us – even if he is a Yankees fan.
My brother stands, dusts himself off, and turns to me with a wide, toothy grin. This is more than a game to him, and I’m beginning to understand the secret life he lives.
