It all started one summer day on the blacktop of an old school

It all started one summer day on the blacktop of an old school. The neighborhood kids were short a player, and my older brother waved me in. I didn’t have cleats, just duct‑taped shoes. My glove was too small, my heart too big. The second batter cracked one deep. I chased it down, caught it off the bounce, and without thinking, I threw that white ball like it was born in my hand. It sailed over the backstop, into a yard across the street. The older kids froze. My brother didn’t speak. He never really did.

That was the first time I realized the ball had chosen me.

The Blacktop Years

No one woke me up to practice. No one coached me. I threw a hundred pitches into a brick wall every morning, another hundred after school. I didn’t know what I had, but I knew it was mine.

When summer came, I joined their team. I was the youngest, smallest, stuck in the outfield with dew soaking through my busted shoes. The field sat across from a lake, and the cold fog rolled in like a memory. I’d grab a handful of dirt and let it slip through my fingers, feeling peace in that simple ritual.

Some kids said I didn’t belong. But the boys from the blacktop knew. They’d heard the snap of my arm, the crack of the ball hitting the glove like Indiana Jones’ whip. I didn’t earn it. I didn’t train for it. I just had it.

We lost that first game. Nobody saw my arm. They left angry. I stayed. I ran. I threw until I couldn’t walk. I slept behind the restrooms at the park. No one worried. I wasn’t wanted at my mom’s place anyway.

Next game, we were losing again. No pitching. The coach waved me over. I thought I was in trouble. He handed me the ball. “Let’s see it, kid.”

Coach Dick — real name Richard — was an ex‑pro catcher. He knew the sound. When my pitch hit the mitt, he stood up. The catcher hesitated before tossing it back.

I was the pitcher.

We won the championship.

My mom and stepdad came to one game. Left halfway through. Said they’d watch when I played better. I didn’t mind. Baseball didn’t need their approval. It was mine.

The Summer With Jed

Then came the summer that changed everything. Jed’s family took me in when his parents went on vacation. His dad coached at a small college but also ran the local all‑star team. That summer, he let me play with them.

We were a traveling team out of Louisiana, and we made it all the way to one game before the Little League World Series. My performance that summer — the throws, the speed, the way the ball snapped into the glove — landed me in Sports Illustrated for Kids.

Jed was more than a teammate. He was a friend who always smiled, no matter the score. I remember one game when we were down a player. Jed’s dad told me I’d have to cover both second base and the outfield. The other team laughed. They smirked at the idea of a skinny twelve‑year‑old holding two positions.

But Jed smiled from third base. That was enough.

The first batter pulled one my way. I let the whip loose, and the throw was so hard it broke the laces on the first baseman’s glove. The sound of leather tearing was louder than the crowd. Silence fell. Then the inning ended. We won.

The other team stopped laughing. Coaches leaned forward. Parents whispered. They had seen it — the arm, the gift, the thing that couldn’t be taught.

Jed’s dad clapped me on the shoulder after the game. “That’s how you hold a team together,” he said. Jed just smiled. He always did.That summer was proof. Proof that I belonged. Proof that the white ball had given me something no one could take away.

The Temptation

High school brought new challenges. Bigger kids, faster games, louder crowds. And temptations. Drugs weren’t new to me, but now they were tied to the game itself.

I was recruited to play ball in a city outside St. Louis. It felt like a dream — a shot at something bigger than duct‑taped shoes and broken homes. I was pitching in a district game, adrenaline high, when a teammate called me into the bathroom.

The smell hit me first — mildew, sweat, and something darker. Memories.

He said, “I got something that'll make you play better.”

I knew what it was.

I’d danced with that demon before.

I wanted to belong.

I wanted to win.

So I did it.

We snuck off between innings, chasing the high like it was part of the game. Back on the mound, I threw harder than ever. My pitches cut through the air like lightning, the snap of the glove echoing like a whip. Coaches turned the footage into a highlight reel. My tape looked good. Real good.

But my arm?

It was never the same.

Later, I learned I had torn my elbow badly. That night, the white ball I loved became the white ball that betrayed me. It gave me glory for a moment, but it planted a wound that would haunt me for years.

Reflection

Years later, I look back at that night and wonder: was it worth it? Was the win worth the wound? Was the highlight reel worth the years of regret?

I still hear the snap of the glove sometimes, still feel the whip of my arm. But I also feel the ache, the silence, the emptiness that followed.

Baseball gave me belonging, but it also exposed my hunger for acceptance. Drugs promised power, but they stole more than they gave. The white ball was both gift and curse.

And yet, I can’t forget the summers — the fog by the lake, the dirt slipping through my fingers, Jed’s smile from third base, the broken glove laces, the stunned silence of coaches realizing they’d just witnessed something rare.

Those moments stitched themselves into me. They became part of the story I carried forward, the story that proved I wasn’t invisible.

Redemption

The story doesn’t end in that bathroom. It doesn’t end with a torn elbow or a broken dream. Because even though the white ball took so much, it also gave me something I couldn’t see at the time: resilience.

I learned that belonging doesn’t come from wins or highlight reels. It comes from persistence, from waking yourself up when no one else will, from throwing a hundred balls into a brick wall because you believe in something bigger than yourself.

The white ball nearly took my life, but it also taught me how to fight for it.

“It all started one summer day on the blacktop of an old school”.