I’m no Ken Buns. I played Little League; had tops maybe thirty baseball cards. My favorite player was Willie Mays. I finished my last season riding the bench a good portion of the time. I was good enough to start, but my parents did not give a crap, and neither did I, so I played when Lenny played me, and that was fine with me. I played infield, outfield, left field, and catcher.
I was no stand out, and did not want to. ECT ( early childhood trauma) had left me nearly a zombie; concussions...abuse, neglect, fear. I was ok where ever I was put. There was never anyone to explain trauma, there was never any one to talk about it to.
I was not a victim, or exceptional for a fourth child; third son. I decided not to play after Little Leage. I did not like the way kids got picked on after an error or strike out by their own team mates. I hated getting picked on, and all the pressure to perform as coached. Baseball, organized, was just not fun.
There were rules. There were umpires who got paid to make the calls. There were parents obsessed with their child’s performance, and then there were mean kids.
I was playing baseball after I learned how to swim, and before I learned how to row or ride a bike. I became a decent oarsman, sailor, and paddler; all of which I preferred to playing organized baseball.
Killing fish for fun ended after I did it for money, I was haunted by blue fish...murdered in my lap. Like getting hit in the head with the baseball bat catching, I got over it. I changed positions and moved on.
There was always a survivor hidden under the zombie like trance that I moved about in after each unresolved trauma. A cycle that I did not understand ...trauma, shut down, partial recovery, trauma. Nobody noticed, or If they did, thought that I should know.
Partial recovery...should not be confused with recovery. Childhood trauma recovery response is learned, or transferred. Behavior indicates past trauma...mental, physical, emotional.
Before I was killing fish professionally I was properly trained to row...reach, draw, rest, recover; The four parts of a single stroke. Rowing was once a big sport at Rutgers. I never was in their boathouse on the Raritan. I never saw a Rutgers baseball or even football game over the decades it took me to finish night school...the one they made for WWII veterans.
I did make it to one collegiate boat house; it was the Naval Academy; I delivered parts. I was impressed, but too busy to process partial recovery, before the next traumatic event transpired. Eventually self medication and understanding companionship became wrapped up in the cycle, but all of this was beyond my comprehension.
The company had a softball team. I played one game. My first at bat I hit a long triple left center. If I had not pulled a hamstring muscle on the way to first it would have been a home run.
I got into the rowing business after that. My bench riding days were over, but I realized that I could really hit, and remembered that I always could. I soon forgot that I had remembered, but knew that I would again remember, because I always had a partial recovery. I could hit but, hated the ragging, more than I liked seeing that ball fly deep. I remembered all the way back to cap league, when I hit my first long ball, a solid double...I hesitated at second, but was coached to third, and tagged out. I did not take it well. I was fine with a double. I hit singles after that, easily getting on. I remembered why, and then forgot. I forgot the rowing business too.
I became a Yankee fan. I invented the Yankee Hankey, a pin stripped snot rag. Nobody knows, even I forgot. I forgot but never forgot how to row. It’s like riding a bike. Murderer’s Row was before my time as a Yankee fan. I like the Giants better...Willie Mays and all that. I had a Willie Mays card, it took me a few tries to get that one, it was the only one I wanted. I forgot what happened to my thirty cards, with the rubber band around them. I had all my stuff in an empty record player case. It was not much, but long gone.
I’ve got time to remember now, a long partial recovery; a major league recovery, my golden year, maybe two. Writing history, not driving, no slush or snow. I just remembered to take a breath, and then the miracle of consciousness. I’m back. Raytheon5.