“You’re out!” The words rang through my ears like a church bell.  I tried to hold back the tears that gathered my eyes. I walked back to the dugout feeling defeated. My shoulders were slouched, my head hanging, my feet dragging. “I was so sure that I’d hit it this time” I thought to myself. My father came up to my seven-year-old self and put his hand on my shoulder. “It was a good try Nicole. Don’t worry about it. Keep your head up and you’ll get it next time.” I looked at him with puffy eyes, unsure with what he meant. I was confused. How was I ever going to hit the ball if I couldn’t do it now?

            The next day, dad took me to the softball field at a local park. I didn’t want to be there. I didn’t want to relive that moment where my bat slipped under the ball, missing it ever so slightly, getting the third strike. He was carrying a bucket of balls in his right hand and his glove in his left. I, on the other hand, was dragging my bat in the dirt behind me, marking my trail with the subtle indent that my bat left along with the scuff marks of my reluctant feet in the dirt. I approached the plate. Unenthusiastically, I propped up my bat above my right shoulder, exactly how my dad had taught me so many times before. “Now,” my dad said. “Try to watch the ball. Focus on it. Watch it hit your bat.” “Yes Dad.” I said it every time, the same sullen way, when he gave me the same advice for the hundredth time. First pitch, I swung with all my might. Miss. Second pitch, I swung so hard that I nearly turned in a circle. Miss again. This went on for about ten balls before I dropped my bat and looked at him with tear-filled eyes. “I can’t do it!” I whined. “It’s just too hard.” He looked at me with an odd smile on his face. “Well of course you can’t do it with tears in your eyes.” I laughed. Dad always had a way to try and lighten the situation.  He looked at me and said “Ok, let’s try it again. Really focus this time. You can do it.” I gripped my bat tightly and put it in its place. I squinted my eyes the way the baseball players on television do when they are trying to concentrate. I was ready. Dad threw the ball. I focused. It was if everything was in slow motion. My dad’s arm lay frozen in the exact spot where he had released the ball; the ball was twisting ever so slightly and came toward me as slowly and gracefully as a balloon rises in the air. Finally, I “saw” the ball. When it came near enough, I swung as hard as I could and watched the ball hit my bat, exactly on the section that my dad called the “sweet spot.”A smile filled my face. I watched the ball soar over the pitcher’s mound where my dad stood, over second base, and drop only a foot from the bag. “I did it!” I screamed. “I hit the ball.” Nothing had ever felt as gratifying as that first solid hit. I felt on top of the world, I felt I had conquered, I felt I had won.

What I had really learned from that experience was that had I just sat there and moped about, I wouldn’t have had that first hit that gave me the drive and ambition to spend countless hours on the dirt. Whether it was hitting balls, fielding at first base, or diving back to a base to escape an out, I knew that there was so much that I could do if I just gave myself the chance. Sure these actions didn’t come naturally. I had to work at them, but I knew that every bloody elbow and bruise from a missed ball meant that I was one step closer to achieving my dream of becoming the best player that I could be. But my strive to be the best didn’t stop on the softball field; I wanted to be the best academically as well. Through my entire school career, I have pushed myself by joining student council, leading in school plays, volunteering countless hours to the bettering of my community, and taking harder classes that I know will push me to spend extra hours on homework and studying, but I haven’t regretted any of it. From softball, I have learned that if there is something important to you, then it is worth working for. To me there is no bigger satisfaction than bringing in that extra run for your team, helping a student bring up their grade in a challenging course, or taking a bow as the final curtain falls. All of these could not be done without a little extra effort to improve myself. Softball taught me that.

At the time, I didn’t know what my dad had meant by “really focus.” Now I do. He wasn’t simply readying me for the next at-bat. He was preparing me for life. In order to succeed in the many endeavors that I take on, I need to focus and really evaluate the choices that I make to reach my goals. When dad said “Keep your head up and you’ll get it next time” he wasn’t just talking about the next time I faced a pitcher; he was talking about pushing through failure rather than dwelling on it. He meant that if you happen to fail, not to let it get to you or ever stop you from reaching your goals. Had I let my failure at the plate hinder me from pushing onward, I never would have learned the valuable lessons that came from my insignificant downfall. Some people say “what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.” I say “you’re never out unless you give up.”