Softball

I started softball practice today. I was a little nervous. I've never really played, and no amount of playing catch with Tim really equals a game. Luckily, 9- to 12-year-olds aren't really that great either. They sure do have a lot of attitude, though.

(I did go to one or two theatre softball games in Alabama, but I got heatsick pretty quickly from all the exertion. I hope it's not too bad in Chicago this summer, though I think I was even more out of shape that usual down south.)

It was fun. I was glad I'm good at catching already because then the girls didn't question why I was there. And I've been around Tim long enough to pick up a few things, so I was able to give them some pointers. (Um, mostly the ones I've heard him give me, like "watch the ball go into your mitt.") Most of the girls seemed to accept me pretty quickly; a few of them kept wanting to practice their throwing and catching with me, even during the water break.

I think after a few practices, I'll feel more confident with them so I can do more coaching. I'm still not sure what kind of dynamic S wants. She's the head coach, and has been doing it for seven years, so she knows all of the old girls, the rules of the game, and how to run practices. She mostly recruited me and a few other classmates because she needs bodies at the practices and games. I'm sure that will all get worked out soon.

It feels good run around in the sun and shake the grey winter off.

Helping others

On the bus today, I held the back door open for a women who, when she exited, said, "tell the bus driver to call 9-11 for the boy in the back." When I asked what was wrong, she said, "Just look at him; you'll see."

Another girl who was huddled in the stairwell with me overheard, and we peered through the crowded bus to a young man who was rocking in his seat, looking unwell. In my observations, he looked tired and drunk, or coming down off something. But in my opinion, not in need of an ambulance.

But who am I to judge? Isn't it better to be safe than sorry? This prompted a discussion between the girl and I, who told me she was a med student at the same hospital where I interned. I suppose between a social worker and a doctor, you've got the two people most likely to intervene on another's behalf, but we didn't. We watched him for a little while, then fell to discussing the weather, and Chicago traffic. By the time I exited the bus, he was the last thing on my mind, and I forgot to say anything to the driver.

But obviously I didn't completely forget, and I'm still mulling over how far you should go to help another person. I feel like I'm fairly good in crisis, and had this been one, my instincts would have taken over and I would have known what to do. But it didn't seem very much of a crisis.

Tim and I were driving home from a party last weekend late, and a woman who was obviously developmentally delayed walked through the cross walk in front of us. She was walking stiffly and awkwardly, but it seemed more like her personal gait rather than any recent incident. A guy on a bike came slowly rolling up next to her, and I could read his lips as he asked her if she was ok. She ignored him and kept walking. He pedaled slowly next to her, and continued talking to her. It didn't seem to me like he was being solicitious in his remarks, but rather bothersome. Then the light changed, and we drove off. I turned and looked out the window after them.

Tim could tell what I was thinking. "I think she could take him," he said. And maybe she could have. He was a scrawny little dude. But I still worried. What if we had driven off right before he attacked her? What if we had stopped? What would I have said? What would we have done?

It's so hard to know.

Sometimes I feel like it is just way too easy being me. Aren't things supposed to be harder than this?

I say this after knocking out a scholarship application that required me to write a two-page paper describing a social need or condition that I've recognized and how I've acted upon it. I wrote about violence against women. Easy as pie. And who could turn down a scholarship application from someone who talked about how she's working against domestic violence? It seems like a gimmee, really.

Then it occurred to me that maybe this is what it's like to be an adult. I have worked and worked to learn things and get good at them. It always seemed as though that would be a lifelong struggle. That I'd never get to the point where I was no longer the one asking all the questions, but rather the person being asked.

And I realized that I know more than I give myself credit for. I feel like I'm a late bloomer, at 30 just now going to grad school and fixating upon a career that I love, and it's hard, because I feel too like I'm just starting out. But I realize that my previous years in domestic violence weren't just a gateway into a good graduate program. They were foundations of experience upon which I can build.

In my end-of-the-year evaluation, my supervisor raved about my professionalism, and I was confused, until it dawned on me that with my age has come wisdom. I know what I want to do, and how I need to do it. Rock on.