I hate baseball, and no matter how hostile and absolute that particular word is, it’s the only way I know how to express my feelings about the sport that has brought so much pain to my family.
My unpopular loathing for America’s favorite pastime wasn’t always the case. As a little leaguer, I eagerly awaited opening day alongside my teammates. But as I grew older, my enthusiasm faded and was replaced by predictable disappointment.
I began to resent the hours I spent practicing and dreaded game days. They were just another reminder of broken promises. Each time my father said he’d be at my game and didn’t show, it chipped away at any hope of having a relationship with him.
I’ll give him some credit, though. He taught me a few of life’s cruel lessons that I carry with me to this day. First, that trust is earned by one’s actions, not words. The other was to never put the key to your happiness in someone else’s hands.
They call me crazy, lethal—psychotic.
I’m all those things and more.
The darkness calls to me, sending me spiraling out of control.
But one woman calms me, bringing me back from the edge when I’m about to lose it.
She’s my savior in every way possible.
But she doesn’t even know I exist. Yet.
I see the way she struggles, trying to maintain her sanity.
I won’t let her go down the same path as my mother.
She won’t be another statistic.
There’s only one thing for me to do—take her.