I finally went on my first official college visit. Every club softball player had dreamed of this right of passage. All the doubts you gave to me were gone.  All the days when your little Hitler mustache bobbed up and down as your words spit through your tiny teeth, “You’re never going to see a college softball field with how shitty you’ve been playing.” You came out to every practice with your perfectly bald, shiny head ready to scream. Your green eyes judged every movement of every player. Every player you always told would not go to college, but “happened to make it, just give it some time for the coach to see what kind of player she really is.”  You were dressed head to toe in everything Nike, your shorts, shoes, hat, shirt, hell even your phone case. You were an exact representation of a wanna be baseball player, but you were also a has been. You would never live to tell the tale of moving on to the next level. Did you even play college ball?

You trudged through the softball dugout and field with purpose. Your chin was never down.  You were not afraid to look someone in the eye, even if you were not tall enough to see eye to eye. You would never stand down. You throw away any doubts of you being wrong. You were always right, and that smirk on your face knew it. You ran the show. You said something not even close to funny as your darting eyes looked for approval. You always got approval. No one ever stood up to you. They just nodded and laughed even if your joke was offensive. No one questioned you. You knew everything about the game; you knew nothing about treating your players. You were sexist, but you understood girls were more emotional on the field than men.  You understood, but you had no care in the world for emotions. Your wicked green eyes flashed at any sign of anything done wrong. The muscles in your short stubby arms flexed as the bat came spinning out of your hand into the fence. You looked to both sides and gritted your teeth every time you were mad. Words stuttered out of your mouth as if you were trying to grab on to the right thing to yell about, as if your shiny red head was going to spill words of your disgust for our performance. Everything you said was calculated; I saw it in your eyes. I could not wait to get away from you.

It has been five years, and now it is the day of my last senior game. I have seen you through the crowd of some of my games. I have seen you wandering at tournaments, checking out the competition. How could anyone miss your big calves and all black Nike outfit? How could anyone miss your eyes lingering on our team. How could anyone miss the envy and hatred in your tired green eyes? How could you volunteer to host my last ever high school game? How could an adult, like yourself, never grow up after all these years? How could I let such anger build up in me seeing your sly smirk approach the dugout? How could your wandering green eyes ask, “Who can I put into the only open outfield spot right now?” How could you let your dark green eyes train on me, the only outfielder in the dugout, and yet still flash up to pick a middle infielder to play an outfield position?  How could you fist bump me with that same nasty smirk and let a “Good game” roll off your tongue? How dare you ruin MY last senior game, Ryan?