“You can do anything” rang

through my ears when I

was growing up.

It wasn’t true.

I knew I’d never be 

a ballerina. 

But then…

I never wanted to be.

“You’re just like your mother

and your grandmother,”

my dad would

exclaim in wonder. “Anything

you try, you can do.”

Maybe there was some truth 

to his confidence. I liked 

learning. I liked painting

oil landscapes

and imitating Johnny Bench 

in our front yard ball games

and sewing corduroy gaucho skirts and

teaching inner city kids to 

sail a Sunfish at summer camp.

But my successes had

more to do with 

what I tried; it wasn’t

just “anything.”

Anyway, pleased, 

I took 

his words to heart.

And I told my daughter that

she, too, 

could do anything.

She was smart.

She was hard working.

She was clever.

But the message 

morphed. It became a

scoresheet with all the 

boxes waiting to be filled. 

“You must be perfect 

because 

you’re smart, hardworking,

and clever,”

she heard.

That wasn’t how I’d 

heard it.

Was that 

what had come 

from my mouth?

It was time to fail.

My teenage

daughter needed to see me

stumble 

at something new. 

To see me fail.

To fall flat. 

And in front of her.

And there it was- right in front of me:

Church softball!

My significant 

other is the coach.

The perfect opportunity!

“Sure, I can hit! I Yeah, I can

catch the ball! Thanks 

to my Dad. I’ve even got a glove 

somewhere.

Let me play!”

He doesn’t ask 

about running.

Running? I forgot. 

Oh yeah, that’s part of the game,

isn’t it?

By the first game, he suspects.

”You’re in right field- It’s 

the best position.”

I jog into the outfield.

I know my stance as

the batter takes his place; 

I can fake it.

And I do.

But each inning, I 

pray. “Don’t

let the ball come this way.”

“Lord, let Jessica 

run to catch that fly. 

She’s young.”

“Strike ‘em out, 

strike ‘em out!”

I smile and wave ever

so slightly from right field,

as she watches from

bleachers behind 

home plate.

And so it goes

my way. I look cool

and competent.

Does she know 

I’m faking it?

And then, I’m up.

I can hit,

and I do!

Base hit between second and third!

Dad would be proud!

“Run! Run!”

Coach yells, waving his

arms wildly, 

as if that can wind 

me up faster.

“I am, I 

am,” I puff,

as the ball whips over

from shortstop 

to first base.

“Out!”

My shoulders slump.  

I slow 

to a crawl.

Yep. I am. Out!

My only time 

at bat

is over.

For the last innings,

Jessica subs 

for me 

in the line up.

She covers 

center field…

and right field 

for me.

It’s as clear as the 

cerulean sky 

overhead.

I failed

…to catch a fly ball.

…to get on base.

…to be more than

a name on the roster.

And I failed to impress 

the coach, my sweetie.

I come off the field

and into her arms.

“It’s okay, Mom. 

You can’t be great at 

everything.”

And that–no matter how face reddening–

is a win for us both, no

matter how 

you keep score!