Childhood

A small patch of dirt – at least in dry weather – and a rusty pitchback made up my easiest escape while growing up in the same house as the biggest bully in every school I attended. As strange as it sounds, I look back at the persistent bullying of my older brother with an appreciation. My only way to beat him was with words. Of course, those words were often followed by a whipping. But I developed a knack for winning arguments with words and that turned into a love of putting words down on paper.

            At the time, though, it was a matter of survival. We grew up what was considered the good part of Huntsville, Alabama. We certainly didn’t live extravagant but our house was big enough for all three children to have our own room, even though that meant my home set up a makeshift bedroom for herself in our living room. My father was still part of our lives after moving cross country following his divorce from my mother. But he wasn’t there daily to control my brother’s bullying.

            I began spending most of my time out of the house after my mother left for work. Most of it was spent either riding our bikes throughout the quiet neighborhoods of South Huntsville or participating in whatever game we could get started. We would ride to the Southeast YMCA for pickup basketball or play wiffle ball games in my friend John’s yard, where hitting a home run meant knocking the ball over the neighbor’s fence across the street.

            When by myself, I would head to the corner of our backyard where I threw away my worries by throwing the baseball against a pitchback net. I would often envision myself playing in the World Series during my baseball throwing sessions. The Cardinals were always one of the teams and Bob Gibson was always on the mound for them. If I caught the ball it was an out. Miss it and the runner was safe. Games lasted nine innings – just like the real thing – and miraculously the Cardinals always found a way to win the World Series.