Bank on It

Once again, it’s the end of another season.

A few weeks ago, I wrote about baseball. Childhood baseball. The Unga-Bunga Baseball, to be exact. I also mentioned, in that post, how I used to play Little League Baseball. And, I also mentioned that I do not remember why.

In some parts of the world, Baseball is the American Pastime. It’s what every boy plays. Period. It’s like a rite of passage. Ya’ gotta do it. How I got into it in the first season, I don’t know. Probably because some of my friends were gonna play, so I did too. Do I remember who those friends were? No. I do recall spending some time in my backyard with my dad, practicing catching the ball. We even had one of those Net-things that you could toss the ball into. The net had a target area coloring so you could practise your aim.

Honestly, I did not enjoy ‘practicing my aim’. I did enjoy just throwing the ball into the net to see how much of a ‘spring back’ I could get the ball to do. Only if it was so I didn’t have to walk as far to get it again.

This is not starting off well. Let me try again.

When I was younger, I played Little League Baseball—just like all the other boys. In the ‘80s, that’s what we did. We played ball. Only, I didn’t enjoy it. More specifically, I didn’t enjoy the organization of it. The organized play. I just wanted to play and have some fun. Why did we have to take turns batting when it was painfully clear that certain boys preferred to bat—and were better at it than others? I’m not naming names, nor am I pointing fingers. It would be futile for me to do so. Not only would you not be able to hear me, but you also cannot see me pointing at myself anyway.
Author’s note: I was not good at the batting. I was a bad batter, and I knew it. The team knew it. Everybody knew it. I’m okay with that. It is what it is.

The first season wasn’t so bad. I made some friends and enjoyed the hanging out. So, I went another season. It was in that second season that I became very confused. We had a different team name. We had different colored uniforms. My team members were also different. What…?!?!

Looking back, I can see the autism doing a subtle number on me, but back then, it just was stupid. Now, before any of you make your rude comments like, “Well, duh. New season. Hello?” Let me counter your comment with this: “When the Angels get back together for their new season, do they change their name? No. No, they don’t. So, shut up.” While I am not a sports guy, I do know teams keep their name. Thus, my confusion. Plus, our team name was something like Vance Refrigeration, or something like that. (Office fans, enjoy. but seriously, it was a long name with ‘refrigeration’ in the title. so confusing)

When the time for a third season came along, I definitely remember my father asking me if I wanted to play the next season, and during a moment where insanity had a solid grasp on my mind, I said, “Sure. I guess so.” Why?!?!?! Why would I do that to myself?! Ugh…

That next season was the worst. Truly. I hated it. I wanted to quit right away. But no-o-o. I had made a commitment. Or something to that effect. At least, that’s what I was told by my parents. I didn’t like my teammates. I had discovered a distinct fear of the ball, and they were expecting us to not use a ‘T’ to hit the ball with. No Tee?!? Were they insane? I submit, yes. Yes, they were insane. I remember asking for one. The coach telling me, “No.” Me striking out. Going again. Asking again. Being told, “No.” Again! Getting two strikes, being given a Tee, and then hitting the ball. Finally!

Well, more of a bunt. But, still. You get the point.

The afraid of the ball thing. Yeah. Seriously. I had PTSD from a few years before about the baseball sport and getting hit in the face. It sucked. You can read about that here. Go ahead. It was traumatizing.  Why did I play the game…?

Anyway, the coach that year wanted us to all take turns in the different positions. NO! I played Right Field. It’s important, ya’ know? That was my position. Sure, I got bored. Sure, I sometimes had to be called back in because when the teams switched, I didn’t notice. And sure, I made a good play on my fellow teammate because I had no idea how to play the game, or whose team I was on (it only happened once). Minor trivialities…

The coach forced me to be the pitcher. “Everybody plays every position,” he told me. I was holding the game up. I did not want to go to the mound. I was forced. I asked him (knowing my complete and total fear of the ball), “What happens if it comes right at my face?” The coach loomed over me, not intentionally ominous, but still, looming (I was so small for my age), “Then, put your glove up and catch it.”

Oh! Catch it. Why didn’t I think of that? Of course. So stupid of me.
Well, DUH!

I threw a perfect pitch. Perfect. The batter had no problem spotting, tracking, or hitting the ball. Right. To. Me.

I felt the war-cry from Arthur (of The Tick superhero fame) well up inside me. My body reacted reflexively. Before my coach could do anything. I was already 10 steps ahead of him. I heard the roar of the crowd as they cheered the batter’s triumph despite my arms muffling the sound. You see, I was on my feet, in a ball-like fetal position, arms over my head, my glove creating a make-shift leather turtle shell for my back (seriously, I was small). The ball had passed through the space that would have been my head at about 1,000 miles per hour. I don’t care if you don’t believe me. You weren’t there.

“Okay,” The coach lamented, “Go back to right field.”

“I told you,” I called back to him as I angrily jogged back to my safety zone.

“Where am I going with this?” You may be asking. I almost forgot myself. I ramble sometimes. Thank you for reminding me.

At the end of the last game, my father was right there, ready to take me home. He put his arm around me and said, “Ready to go home?” I was. We walked for what felt like forever. I know it wasn’t, but there was a wooden fence that separated the ballfield and the parking lot. As we neared the opening in the fence, and my opportunity to never sport again, I heard someone calling my name. Both my father and I turned around to find one of my teammates running toward us. A box in his hands.

He breathlessly approached us and handed me the box, “Here you go.” He had a smile from ear to ear. “This is for you.”

“For me? Why? What is it?” I was beyond confused.

“It’s an award for our MVP of the season.” He returned.

Well, that was a lie. You read some of the things that occurred. And those were my finer moments. I knew I was not the MVP of anybody’s team, let alone this one. “Are you sure you have the right player?” I made three attempts to give it back to him. He declined every time.

“Nope,” He smiled as he ran back to the team, “it’s yours. You earned it.”

My father just smiled at me, and I smiled back. I still knew it wasn’t true. I was not the Most Valuable Player. But it was thoughtful. On the car ride home, I opened the box. Inside was an Uncle Sam piggy bank. Uncle Sam stood on a platform. You put a coin in his right hand, pressed a button on the stand, and all at the same time, his mouth would open, a satchel on the stand would open, and his right arm would drop to allow the coin to fall into the bag. Then, once you let go of the button, the stachel would close, his mouth also, and his arm would move back into position to await the next savings. It was pretty cool. I used it for many years.

Where is this all going? Beats me. It’s nearing the end of the Baseball Season. It is also the last week of the school season where I live. This year has been rough. I don’t know exactly why. There seems to be some political things taking place that I honestly never thought would occur. So many good teachers are retiring (early or otherwise), or just up and quitting (a theme I am seeing everywhere—so it seems). I have been a paraprofessional for over a decade. I teach. It’s what I do. Not being a teacher is a wild concept for me.

Still, this year, a new position has opened up within my school district. I am a perfect fit for it. Basically, it’s a plain-clothes security officer for an elementary school. Love it! Children love me. They just do. I think it’s because I treat them with respect. I don’t condescend to them, and they know it. Children pick up on that stuff quick. Also, one of the math teachers (one of the best teachers I have ever known) is switching to another position at the school where I currently work, for his last couple of years before retirement. I told him that I had applied for the new position, and he laughed, “Oh, I see. So, because you can’t be in my classroom, you’re just going to leave?” I told him that he was more right than he knew.

His classroom was never out of order. Ever. He taught well, naturally—and with experienced practice. I loved getting to be in his classroom. It rarely happened, though. I was usually assigned somewhere else.

I used to regularly get told, “Oh, if we could only clone you.” or “If we could only have you in every classroom.” Yeah, that stuff could easily go to my head. It could go to anybody’s. I haven’t heard that in a long while (years). I have only been chastised for doing the same things, in the same ways, that I used to. The same things that garnered me those compliments from teachers, fellow aides, administration, and parents alike. I don’t hear it anymore. I just get told to—in so many words—don’t do anything beyond my specified job description. My brand of formerly exceptional help isn’t wanted anymore. Anywhere. It makes me not want to be exceptional anymore. At all. Anywhere.

I haven’t heard back regarding the security post, yet. I hope I get it. Don’t get me wrong, I wouldn’t mind helping in the classrooms next year, if I don’t. But, when you feel your administration pushing you out for doing what they themselves used to commend you for, what do you do?

I believe the Lord has gifted me with a teaching skill. Additionally, I believe that the more I have worked on being a better teacher, He has blessed me with exactly that, being a better teacher. The term, ‘You can Bank on it’ or ‘It’s money in the bank’ came into popularity due to an American television show entitled Baretta (aired in the 1970s). Essentially, this means that you can count on something. You can count on it as surely as there is money in the bank’s safe. I am still trusted at my other job with the local university. And I am very glad for that. I have really come to enjoy that opportunity. My boss likes me. I feel supported. I would like to be full-time instead of just an adjunct, but I digress. I like teaching those students very much. I love the topic, the material. I love the collegiate-student-mind “AH-HA!” moments. They are SO much fun! It’s a great job. If my time was spent looking after young children in the mornings, keeping them all safe, and then teaching in the afternoons to young adults that want to learn (versus middle school children that don’t), I’d be okay with that. You can bank on it.