My Earliest Memory: A Female Righty Takes the Mound

My Earliest Memory: A Female Righty Takes the Mound

Spaghetti dinner was wafting through the kitchen. The delectable smells of my mom’s gourmet meal came up through my nose reminding me that it was my favorite time of day, dinnertime. Much like Snoopy, dinnertime was something I rejoiced in. The kitchen smelled like a delicious Italian restaurant with the pasta boiling in the pot and the chicken baking in the oven. My mom was an excellent chef. She made even the simplest, most mundane foods special and everyone enjoyed their full bellies when they were done. Her food brought my family together; it could have brought countries in time of war together. 6:00 PM every night dinner was served and we were all ready to eat. My dad would have just walked in from work and my mom would be waiting on the steps to greet him. Dinnertime represented togetherness.

The kitchen was wallpapered yellow, white and silver art deco patterns and the cabinets were dark wood, chocolate-colored paneling. An array of plants hung before the large bay windows; we called that area the jungle because the plants actually tickled whoever sat in the seat on the inside of table making it very uncomfortable to eat if the table wasn’t pushed out of its grasps. The table was plain, unfinished round oak with thin lines etched in it that we all used to run our fingers along because it felt textured. It resembled a large circular chopping block only we ate on it and were never allowed to cut directly on it without a cutting-board. The chairs were wicker and most of them had the butt worn in deeply from all the guests who had graced our table at mealtime. I had my own table, dark wood paneled, gold seat and fake wood tabletop for easy cleaning. I was separate from the table, but just close enough so I could hear and see most of what was going on.

Alone at my table for one, I was dressed in only my underwear. I was a messy little girl and my
parents were tired of me ruining all my clothing. My mom used to laugh and say that she could always tell what I ate because I wore it proudly on my clothing, in my hair and on my face. There was a good chance that somebody else wore my meal too if I was in the right mood. Tightly strung ringlets draped themselves in my face as I sat ready to eat.

“Here you go, Starr. Dinner is served.” My mother gingerly placed a bowl of spaghetti and sauce before me and gave me a plastic fork to eat with.

“Thank goo!” I sat there inspired by the bowl of food, waiting for the opportunity to eat it. I stared longingly at the pile of delectable treats searching for my plan of attack.

Then the grown-ups sat at the “adult” table. My parents and their friends were hanging out on a Friday night. They were sharing conversation and laughing.

“Wow! This smells good Joy. Do you do anything else with your time other than cook because this would have taken me all day!” Dave remarked to my mom.

“You know I love to cook,” my mom replied.

“What have you been up to lately? We haven’t gotten together for a while and I was wondering if anything new was in the works.” Dave asked my mom candidly if she was up for anything.

My dad chimed in, “You know Joy she always has something cooking… no pun intended.”

It sounded like they were having a really good time. I was outside of their conversation in my fortress without walls. “Ma! Hey! What about me?” I made noises to get their attention, but much to my chagrin, it didn’t elicit the attention I felt I deserved. I sat there plotting a way to get them to notice me. I tried to push my way out of the seat, but it felt like I was strapped in and then I started playing with my food, (which was not unusual). The marinara sauce was deeply embedded in my nails and all over my hands and then the perfect plot struck me. I grabbed a large handful of the spaghetti all squishy between my fingers and I hurled it at my mom’s friend as hard as I could. It was my pitching debut. I started laughing and clapping. The sauce was still flying all over the place, clumps dripping from the jungle and cabinets.

“What the hell!” I heard Sue scream. The adults were covering themselves with their hands so they wouldn’t be soiled by my meal.

“Get down, she still has more in her hand,” my dad yelled as I was still covered in sauce. I was so proud of myself. I was able to hit my mark. The adults quickly grew silent. Then a wave of laughter erupted. They didn’t know how to respond, but I think they got the point. I didn’t want to be alone. I wanted to be one of them.

“I guess she didn’t want to be left out!” Mom giggled. “I always knew I would raise a girl who knew how to get what she wants!” This whole sneak attack could have been avoided if they just let me sit at the table.

Perhaps this memory is vivid because I’ve been reminded of it so many times. “Hey Starr, do you remember the time you hit Gloria with a handful of pasta?” My mom or dad would say while my godparents were at the house. My parents always enjoy reminding me of the silly things I’ve done. It could also be a staple in my consciousness because it was a time when I first recognized my autonomy of action while still learning how to get my needs met. I’m not saying what I did was appropriate, but at the same time I was taking risks about how to be heard. I was unafraid of the repercussions of my actions and luckily because I was only two or three, there wasn’t much of a punishment.

My family still looks back fondly on that moment wondering how I never became a big league pitcher. The fact that I am a girl was never going to stop me. I played little league and then softball until I was 16 and I pitched on both of those teams. I suppose my talent started when I was a little girl. It was that first taste of hitting my target that got me intrigued.