The Softball

The Softball

I’m in my thirties and in a park.

Zoe is about 90 feet away and holding a softball. I’m waiting with a mitt to catch her throw. She’s obviously upset and I’m crying now.

Forty-eight hours ago, her world has been upended. She has a PE teacher, and instead of letting the kids play, this PE teacher has “skills” to teach. It must be important because we’re going to be graded. The “skill”: Can you throw a softball 90 feet before it hits the ground. A if you get it and lesser distances get a score. Totally can get an F, which tells you that you’ve failed. Good life lessons all around and I hear people study how to teach children.

My daughter is not allowed to get anything less than an A. This rule comes from her and I’m trying to help. She’s scared and stressed as she’s no athlete and at her size and lack of any desire, it’s not an easy assignment.

Each throw becomes a referendum on who she is. She hits 90 and she’s fine. One foot less and life has no more meaning.

I try, gently, “Would you like to be good at this?”

“No,” through tears.

I try again, this one’s harder but I hope she can make the connection, “If you could press a button, get the A without this, would you press it?”

“Yes,” she says.

I don’t know what to say and I can’t stay here anymore.