My father did not sing me lullabies when I was a baby. When Mom told him to tuck me in at night he put on his best Phil-Rizzuto announcer v

Looking back, I was depressed. Not just mopey about being stuck in my room while the other kids played outside. I was absolutely overcome by hopelessness and helplessness and despair. I did not really want to die, things were not that bad. I just wanted out. My rich fantasy life could only satiate my desire to connect with other children to a small degree. I did not realize I was depressed at the time, I just thought I was a freak. I had to be, or else I would be outside playing with the other kids. Mom had to be protecting me from the scrutiny of the normal children. According to one football coach whose writings have become very important to me as I have aged, "Many experts believe that an increasing number of children today display symptoms of clinical depression. For varied reasons, these children feel emotionally abandoned or rejected by parents, peers or society and suffer diminished self esteem. Without a positive counter influence for these children, experts believe their negative thoughts and feelings may ultimately translate to violent actions." (Norton, "Tragedy") The only violence I wanted to be a part of was the cracking of a baseball bat on the ball as I hit a home run, or the friendly slapping of backs with open hands that friends do to congratulate one another. "What can be said about the role of organized youth sports on shaping children? Ideally, kids who are involved in positive, organized sports programs typically learn valuable lessons, do well in school and are less likely to get into trouble." (Norton, "Tragedy")

Peter taught me to call my fellow backyard baseball players "Pack." In my head, Peter would always be the coach I so desperately needed, but to his face we all called him "Pack Leader." (No, it wasn't a cult. It was a baseball team and a group of friends. No, we weren't a gang, either.) By the time Peter was fifteen and I was thirteen, my parents had become reluctantly resigned to the idea that I had friends, and that Peter was one of them, and that no amount of grounding me could prevent me from leaving the house to spend time with my Pack. I did not consider myself to be a "misbehaving teen" like Mom obsessed over on Daytime Television. My parents simply never listened to me, so when it came to my life I chose to affiliate with people who did. My grades in school went way up; I was now getting straight A's in school. I could now sleep through the night without having nightmares. I no longer suffered from asthma, most likely due to the fact that baseball gave me regular exercise , and Peter had also started teaching me how to Swing Dance. I never picked up on Swing Dancing, but trying to learn was always a workout.

Mom and my father never fought. They did, however, consistently play a sport I have learned to call "Not-Fighting." This is obviously the name, because when you ask them what they are doing in the midst of the activity, they would answer, "We're NOT fighting." With clenched teeth and fists, they would pitch complaints and blame at each other, always striking out at the other's words with a heavy swing. I think I must have been an unknowing patron of the game, because time with me was often the trophy with which the winner of Not-Fighting walked away. When Mom was victorious, I would be rushed off to go purse and shoe shopping at the mall, with an obligatory stop by the toy store -- where I was not allowed to look at sports gear because it was a symbol of something terrible and horrible about men in our society, or so a therapist I consulted for a single visit later in life extrapolated as my Mom's reasoning for everything. When my father won their game, we went to the park. Or sometimes to a bar -- my father was friends with every single employee at the local sports "pub," and I think with the majority of the sheriff deputies as well, so bringing a kid in was no big deal. Well, that's not entirely true, because it was a big deal to me. I kn

Some common words found in the essay are:
Zollman Mom, Pack Leader, Kenny Logans, Fun Playing, Norton Tragedy, Little League, Nate Tevis, TV Peter, Middle-School High-School, , peter taught, playing baseball, backyard baseball, little league, baseball team, bedroom window, organized sports, baseball glove, yard playing baseball, baseball games, blamed father,
Approximate Word count = 3575
Approximate Pages = 14 (250 words per page double spaced)