2:07 a.m. The bright,
green digits on the dashboard glare at me, burning the time into my eyes. As
my eyelids begin to droop, the numbers are still engrained in my vision, and the panic begins to set in. Luckily, my mom's constant yelling from the
driver's seat snaps me back into focus, and her words are finally intelligible.
"Molly, what
are you doing? We are completely lost! Why aren't you helping me?? Stop looking
at me like that!"
2:11
a.m. We're driving around in circles in The-Middle-of-Nowhere, New Jersey.
After delayed flights, lost luggage, and inept rental car employees, it’s
pretty easy to say that we're behind schedule. With a supposed hotel nowhere in
sight and a mom who has lost every ounce of sanity she once possessed, I can
vividly see my dreams melting away. Four hours and forty-nine minutes from now
I'm supposed to be on a freshly cut softball field, warming up for possibly the most
important game of my career. The emails have been sent off to the
dream schools, and responses have finally found their way into my inbox. Only
now, it seems my opportunity will won't arrive, since we may never make it out of
this New Jersey turnpike nightmare.
4:17 a.m. My head hits the cool, cotton pillow, and now I
know what heaven feels like. Did I pass
out in the car? There’s no time to think of an answer with a pillow as
perfect as this one. I take the first calm, deep breath I have taken all day.
Sure, I have to play in a matter of hours, but before I can realize any
implications, I fall blissfully asleep.
7:34
a.m. I can feel my mom's hand on my
shoulder as I force my eyes open. I've never been hung over before, but this
must be what it feels like. My bed calls for me, begging for me to lie back
down just for five more minutes. Then it hits me. Bright green digits on the
dresser glare at me, and my stomach knots up. 7:34 a.m. I’ve missed warm-ups. I
have to play in twenty-six minutes in front of college coaches, and I’m still
sitting here in my dad’s Texans sleep shirt. Still, I swallow my tears, throw
on my jersey, and rush out the door.
8:25
a.m. The glaring sun ignites a firestorm in my head at second base. I can feel
my eyes begging to close and my brain pounding. Did someone put weights in my cleats? My breathing is heavy and I
have lost all focus. How many outs are
there? Wait, since when did the bases get loaded? Uh oh; should I be in double
play depth? Suddenly, my coach is screaming at me and waving his arms like
a flightless bird trying so desperately to get off the ground. I glance behind
me and find the a bright yellow ball glaring at me, burning its image into my
eyes. Oh no. Did I just miss that ground
ball? Oh, please don’t let this be happening to me! Not now. Not in front of
the coaches. This was my chance! The fatigue is too strong for tears, but I
want so hopelessly to cry. I’m finished.
9:45
a.m. The abysmal game is over, and I can’t stop staring at my cleats. I can’t
wait to forget it all, but I doubt that will happen. Suddenly, a small card
blocks the view of my Mizuno’s.
“Here,”
my coach murmurs, handing me the card. “Looks like someone saw something in you
in all that mess.”
It reads “University of Pennsylvania Softball Camp – January 6th”. Those are
the words that will be engraved into my vision forever. My second chance.
Molly Oretsky
Staff Writer
Bellaire High School, TPP
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