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By Aaron Duvall
My little sister Heather is one of my heroes. She is one of the most determined people I have ever met. She tried out for the girls basketball team in 7th grade. She didn’t make it. So she became an equipment manager. She tried out again in 8th grade. She didn’t make it … again. She became the equipment manager… again. One morning at 6 o’clock my father was awoken by the sound of a basketball being dribbled. He was ELATED! He assumed that me, his slacker son, had finally gotten serious about basketball. When he walked outside there was Heather dribbling a basketball with her left hand. When asked why she said, “Coach said that the team needed to work on our off hands.” She, the equipment manager, was doing just that.
Heather, tried out for a softball team later that year. It was a club team so everyone made the team. Heather played 3 innings every game, and was guaranteed at least one at bat per a game. 12 games and around 20 at bats later Heather had yet to get a hit. She tried. She tried hard. She would choke up and choke down. She would swing faster, focus more, and do everything the coach would ask. Still, no hits came.
At the last game of the year my father was sitting in the stands. He had sat through 12 grueling games at 7 innings each watching junior high girls softball. He sat through heat, rain, night games, day games, home games away games, and everything in between. (for this alone he deserves sainthood) As he was watching this last game finally Heather was up to bat. It was the last inning, the score… well the score didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered was his baby girl was up for the last time ever and he desperately wanted her to get a hit.
So he prayed. He prayed as he watched her swing and miss. He prayed as he watched her swing again… and miss again. He looked to heaven and said something to the effect of “God I don’t think you care about sports… but if you care at all about my little girl, give her a hit.” The third pitch came and he heard the crack of a bat as the ball slowly dribbled down the first base line and eventually fade into foul territory. The ump looked up and screamed “fair ball”.
My dad, an expert at arguing with umps, jumped up and almost started to state his case before my mother jabbed him in the gut. Heather took off and run towards first. What went on next looked a little like a circus scene. Girls fell over themselves, the ball was passed around, gloves looked as if they had holes as large as watermelons, and Heather just kept running. She rounded second as the ball was kicked into the outfield, she kept chugging to third as it was tossed into the dugout, and finally she got home, and the ump screamed with vigor, “Home Run!”
At this point I guess I should add that Heather has down syndrome, and this was the only time she ever got the chance to play anything remotely resembling organized ball. The day of the last game the opposing coach had gotten together his team and the ump. His speech went something like this, “If that little girl, gets anything close to a hit, you make sure it’s a home run.” And with that act the script had been written. One act of love and kindness turned a foul ball into a home run.
Heather hung up her cleats after that. She put away her glove. She hasn’t been back to the batting cage. But she can still tell you about the day she got a hit, and dad jumped the fence, and met her at home plate, picking her up and spinning her around, crying because he knew, God did care about junior high softball.