Between Innings

Ever heard of baseball?

A game with rules, chalked lines, innings, and a crowd that believes effort guarantees reward. A game where timing is praised more than truth, and endurance is mistaken for choice. A game where people insist it’s fair because everyone is playing by the same rules. I feel like the ball.

Everyone says when life throws you lemons, make lemonade, but no one talks about being hurled at full speed, stitched tight, seams pulled together by expectation, expected to endure impact and still be useful afterward.

No one talks about how even lemons bruise when they’re thrown hard enough, how sweetness doesn’t protect you from force, how being adaptable is often just another word for being hit and expected to smile.

I don’t get to choose the hand that grips me.

I don’t get to question the strength behind the throw.

I don’t get a warning.

I don’t see the direction until I’m already flying, air rushing past, purpose assigned mid-flight. There is no consent in momentum. Only motion. Only demand. I am already moving by the time meaning is attached to me.

Sometimes I’m passed between innings waiting, waiting — set down where everyone can see me but no one needs me.

I sit in open air, exposed, still counted as part of the game.

Told timing matters more than want.

That the pitch will come when it’s right.

That patience is part of the discipline.

That stillness means control, not neglect.

That being unused doesn’t mean being unwanted — just not yet.

Yet can stretch longer than endurance ever admits.

If I’m hit well, they cheer.

If I’m missed, they call it failure.

They never ask how many times I’ve been thrown before.

They never ask how long I’ve been in play.

They don’t see the counting.

The quiet calculations.

How every throw is measured against invisible clocks — money, readiness, responsibility, the future sitting heavy in the stands, watching, judging, expecting return.

I feel their eyes even when they say nothing. Especially then.

I’m bruised by expectations disguised as encouragement.

Toughen up.

Trust the process.

This is how the game is played.

Smile for the crowd.

Hold your shape.

Stay round. Stay intact.

Don’t wobble. Don’t complain. Don’t split open where anyone can see.

Wear is acceptable as long as it looks like strength.

What they don’t say is that even the strongest ball wears down.

Leather cracks.

Stitches loosen.

Pressure leaves its mark long before it breaks you.

Damage isn’t always loud. Sometimes it’s cumulative. Sometimes it’s invisible. Sometimes it’s praised. Sometimes it’s renamed resilience so no one has to stop throwing you.

Some days I’m told to hold everything together — absorb the impact, keep moving, don’t ask to be replaced.

Other days I’m reminded that I’m not the one swinging, not the one deciding when the play begins or ends.

Useful, but never in control.

Essential, but disposable.

Loved in function, forgotten in rest.

Some days I wish to roll out of bounds.

Not to quit — just to stop being swung at.

To rest in the grass where no one is keeping score, where worth isn’t measured by timing or endurance, where stillness isn’t mistaken for weakness, where being intact isn’t the same as being whole.

But the field is loud.

The rules are strict.

The crowd believes the game is fair because they are watching from seats, not seams.

And they insist I return — still round, still intact, still ready.

Ready meaning available. Ready meaning silent. Ready meaning willing.

So I’m picked up again.

Hands close around me.

Expectations tighten.

I’m spun once more, sent back into motion, back into air, back into purpose that was decided without me.

Between innings, I am always almost resting.

Between throws, I am almost free.

Almost is where I live.