Personal Narrative Essay On Baseball

After he was done I put my white batting gloves on and remembered what I practiced. I stepped in the batter's box looking at my coach. He had a bucket of baseballs and a baseball in hand waiting for me to get ready. I looked at him and he threw the ball, I swung as hard as I could trying to hit it as far as I could. My swing was just as I practiced it, nice and smooth.

I’m sure you’ve been told persistence is key, and believe that you can do something, not that you can’t. Well I’m not going to show it to you, or tell you, I’m going to prove it to you. The summer after 4th grade year, our baseball team had the greatest summer ever. At the beginning of the season since their was so many kids at our age group that wanted to play, the adults in charge had to split it up into 3 teams. All 3 teams had fair or average seasons. My team had the best of the 3, but it wasn’t quite good enough. We had had, just enough success, not as much as we would have liked. We found ourselves barely sneaking into the tournament as the worst out of 8 seeded teams. We had to play against the undefeated Watertown team in the first round. We were told we had no chance to win, and we believed that too. The most I’ve ever been wrong in my life was saying, “we have no chance to beat them.”

I thought they thoroughly perceived me only in light of the fact that our bats were ablaze. We worked our way up to score three keeps running in that inning and we led the pack. Unfortunately, they got an opportunity to bat. I was still in the diversion and I had tossed around one hundred and thirty pitches which is a considerable measure for a pitcher. Traditionally mentors take out their pitchers when they hit the one hundred pitch stamp. I was now ready to ambulate out of the hole and onto the field when Coach halted me.

As my Varsity baseball team suits up for practice we whip out our “Easton Mako Bats” and our “Evo-Shield arm sleeves.” Everyone prepares for the season as we break in our new 200-dollar gloves. As I Un-zip my “Demarani Bat Bag” I search for the stick of eye black that seems to add spice to my game as I smother it under my eye, to “reflect the sun” of course. Our accessories become a part of our game, and we begin to value them more than the game itself.

We were in the streets of the neighborhood, Ann Elizabeth to be exact. We had just began to play a game of baseball with my brothers new metal bat. Mom had already left for work and my dad was getting ready to leave as well. He was running sort of late. My brother and I were about to start the game, we check around us to make sure no one was near us to play a safe game. We saw our little sister and brother at the front doors neighbor's house playing with their daughter last time we checked. As my brother threw the baseball, I was getting ready to swing then bam! Before I knew it the bat had already crashed into my little brother's head. Let me remind you that this was a metal bat. A metal bat had ran cross my little brother's head. I was so terrified. My little brother was only 4 at that time. I did not know what to do. I held him in my arms. He was still conscious. I was holding my hand over his open wound. He bled a lot. My other brother had ran to let my dad know. My dad came rushing outside,

They watched us like a hawk, depicting every single move we made. I was a nervous wreck when I was at the tryouts. I was only an eight year old stout looking boy at the time. My mom thought I was good enough to try out for the majors, the only thing she didn’t realize, is the nine year olds who were trying out were bigger, faster, and stronger. When the tryout was going on and it was my turn for a flyball to the outfield, I would run to the ball like a fox, as fast as I could to the baseball

And that ended in a strikeout. I banged the bat on the ground and then I walked into the dugout and soutdown. The our assistant coach talked to me and told me to relax see the ball and swing nicely. Then I got my glove and went to shortstop but that whole enning no balls came to me and the other team hit a homerun with a guy on second

I step up to the plate. The hot lights of the Mets stadium hit my face. Clayton Kershaw was pitching. He is the best pitcher in the MLB. The pitch comes. It was a slow hanging curveball right over the middle. I swing will all my might. I hear the crack of the bat and I see the ball fly over the fence. I trot around the bases and I am approaching home plate. I step on home then I wake up.

I felt completely alone and high school baseball was my opportunity to establish myself among my new peers confident from my previous experiences. I arrived at my new high school's baseball tryouts looking forward to success unbeknownst to me. I was hopeful too I'm prepared compared to the skills of the 60 dedicated Texas athletes enjoy his

It was a chilly Monday night as I finished putting on my baseball uniform. I was nervous because it was the championship game. We were playing our rival team, the Yankees. My close friend Tom was their pitcher, and he struck out a lot of people. Tonight, I was going to get a hit off of him. At least I hoped so. I heard a beep in the driveway and realized it was my mom who was ready to go. ¨ Coming Mom!¨ I shouted through the garage door. As I jogged to the car, I could not stop thinking about getting a hit off of Tom.

As I put off opportunities to improve my skills, and my character, the toll only became harsher and more difficult to overcome. In turn, my status among the other athletes began to deteriorate. Witnessing my peers expedite their game as I still struggled did not phase me so much at the time. In fact, I was sure that my role on the team would remain the same. This was obviously false, as within the matter of weeks I was pushed back further in the batting lineup, and committing more errors in the field than ever before. It was during our playoff run that I had realized the resulting detriment, when each player was counted on more than ever before. We ended up making it to the championship, only being one run short of winning. Although our team was able to accomplish that much, I felt short handed when it came to the successful

Heading into my freshman year of high school, I was excited to play varsity baseball. While I felt honored to make the team in my first year, I also noticed some problems early on. The upperclassmen did not take the team seriously,

I went home full of excitement and quickly recounted to my mom the success I had that day at baseball. I went to bed that night with more confidence than I thought possible and looking forward to another day of baseball. Made my way through school that day visualizing my performance that afternoon for tryouts. With more excitement than nerve I began the second day of tryouts. Thursday we worked on throwing and catching skills, friday was batting. An area in which I struggled a little more than others but with confidence pouring out of me I stepped into the box. Even with the confidence boost working on my skill I struggled heavily and was not happy with my performance. So trying to keep my confidence up I tried to finish that day of tryouts but I could tell that the coaches were less pleased with my performance that day. There’s not a much faster way to be served a large slice of humble pie than to realize you may not be all that you once thought you were. So keeping that in mind I finished the day doing my best. When we gathered together to make final cuts I could feel my heart beating in

I was good enough to make the team, but not good enough to start, and it was made sure that I knew this. At some practice early in the season, it was decided that I would be the scapegoat for the team’s insecurity. I was given the nickname ‘E6’ which means error on the shortstop. Every time I made a mistake, a chant of E6 rang out, eating at my confidence until all that was left was crumbs that could just be swept off the table. Even the coach joined in on the beratement. This caused me to enter into a season long slump, the worst of my life. It was this nightmare season that nearly caused me to give up the game I

Ever since I could remember, I have always had a great interest and love for the game of baseball. As a kid, I would spend countless hours in the backyard with my grandfather, or even by myself, tossing, hitting and fielding a baseball. When I wasn't in the yard pretending to be Nomar Garciaparra I would watch the Boston Red Sox games on TV with my Grandfather.  Even in my early adolescence, as impatient as most are, I had the patience to sit there and watch the Sox.With my eyes glued to the screen with a look of anticipation fixed on my face ready to mimic my grandfather with the excitement of a home run hit or the frustration of Mo-Vaughn striking out. Call me crazy, but I was addicted, even as a young boy, to Boston Red Sox baseball.