CATCH
Devon Preparatory school is a small, all boys, private catholic school in the wooded suburbs of Pennsylvania. The school was structured out of a twenty five room stone mansion built in 1913. The middle school classrooms were converted out of the bedrooms with defunct ornate fireplaces still in place. Floors creaked, windows drafted, air was stuffy, old radiators over heated half the rooms.
In sixth grade my parents sent me to this school as a means to straighten me out. I was permitted to attend a public school in fourth and fifth grade. But an honorable collection of edgy and dangerous pranks and subsequent detentions landed me with a wildcard reputation in the eyes of my parents. To Devon you go.
The morning bus ride to Devon picked up students from two other larger, private, same-sex, Catholic schools. Namely, Malvern Preparatory school and their sister school, Villa Maria Academy. By reputation, Devon was the nerdier, smaller school, with older facilities, smaller student body, and less athletics. Malvern was elite, larger, higher tuition, had a football team and a huge campus. Villa Maria was a short drive away from Malvern. The Malvern kids had a joke about Devon, “Why are there no stairs at Devon? Because fairies don’t have legs”.
The joke didn’t totally land with me because there were plenty of stairs and nothing was wheelchair accessible. But I got the point of the joke, I’m gay because I go to Devon. Devon had a joke, “Malvern. For this who aren’t smart enough to get accepted to Devon”. Truthfully, in those days, on that bus, I’d rather be straight and dumb than gay and smart.
There were no other Devon boys on the bus only Malvern. Praise Jesus. I would always grab the first open row I could find. Going deeper into the bus felt like a death sentence. Deeper into the bus had more kids and I ran the risk of no seats being open and I would have to ask a Malvern kid if I can sit next to them. I would grab whatever open row towards the front of the bus I could find, settle in, and brace for the 20 minute ride. There was a group of four Malvern high school kids who would sit near the front. Four to five years older than I pubescent testosterone was turning their bodies into men. I hadn’t hit puberty yet so they might as well have been on steroids. Or I might as well have been one of these stair-less fairies.
The greatest hits of the morning commute to this awesome school were, “Faggot”, “Fairy faggot” “Fairy”, “bitch”. Physically flicking my ear, hitting me with their bag, throwing things at me, pushing me, punching my shoulder. They provided harassing interviews about Devon and harassing arguments about my gay-ness. I kept all answers brief since I could not dare verbally spar with the hyenas. I defaulted again and again to ignoring them. I never received a full on ass beating. So there’s that praise Jesus. Death by a thousand pricks every morning to this shitty fucking school that I hated and none of my neighborhood best friends went to.
It seems ever since the raging popularity of school shootings the word “bullying” is a used… word. The way “faggot” was a word but isn’t a word now. My morning commute didn’t register as having a title like “bullying”. It registered as, “this sucks, I hate my life, I’m wearing a button down shirt and a fucking tie, I hate this school, please leave me alone”. I hated Devon for many reasons. My entire grade had 12 boys in it and they were academically exceptional. Later on in life I will run into a Devon Alum that updates me on their exceptional post high school achievements including a majority placement at ivy league schools. This proved an experience I was having with them: The kids are brilliant and I am mentally retarded. I was smart enough to pass the entry exams to go to Devon but if you’re the dumbest kid in the class who cares? I couldn’t keep up. I was good at art and sports. Devon had no art classes. Tits. Praise Jesus. The one thing I excel at. They had limited sports options, hell, they could barely field a team with their puddle of a student body. I stayed active in the township’s youth sports leagues which had nothing to do with private prep schools.
Winter was winding down and it was time for baseball tryouts. The fields were muddy, wet, and useless from the winter so the tryouts were in a gym. Fielding drills were first. I did fine bobbled a few but absolutely no balls got past me. Base running was next, a foregone conclusion that put me in a good mood before I even got into line. I might have an off day on other elements of the game but I was never not fast as hell. The Gym floor wasn’t slippery. I got great grip rounding the bases. Hell, I flew, this was a joke. I could read the “whoa” on the coaches faces.
Batting was next, I didn’t know it but the confidence wave was in me. I was dialed in and connected on everything. The sound of the bat hitting the ball was rich because of the bounce back from the gym walls. Also there was an optical illusion that you were hitting it further than you were since you could rope it across the gym not into the empty space of a baseball park. Those sounds and sights raised the confidence level further and further dialed in I became.
Next they called for any kids who pitch. That included me. It was my turn to take the make shift mound. I eyed the catcher to gauge my aim. He was a high school sized kid apparently a son of one of the coaches from the demeanor of conversation he had with one of the coaches. I slung a pitch and it was solid. I knew I would warm up the first few to get in rhythm before I brought some heat. The catcher throws the ball back hard. SMACK. I catch it. I’m distracted by this throw back especially because I am trying to get into my pitching rhythm. I look at the catcher:
The catcher is one of the four Malvern Prep high school kids from the front of the bus.
Shit. Shit. Shit. He probably won’t recognize me without my tie and stupid button down shirt. I lower my head and the brow of my baseball hat. I should be good. But I have to look at him to aim. I can’t not look at my target… Get in rhythm, I can’t think so much when I pitch or my accuracy will be shit. I throw another. Good enough. He throws the ball back at me. SMACK. He threw heat. He did it on purpose. He recognizes me. Shit.
His arm had muscle and testosterone that I had nothing of. His body had 30 pounds of mass that I did not have. My index finger exploded in electric pain. I lowered my head and the bill of my hat so that he could not see my facial expression. Don’t let him see you wince. Do not give him the satisfaction of your cringe. Next pitch. Make eyes with the target. Keep a blank face. I throw it. Strike. He collects the ball and casually rips it back at me. SMACK. Oh my god, the first time wasn’t his hardest? I take the throw directly to my palm where there is little padding. I try to catch it in the webbing of the pocket between the thumb and index finger. But this is a small, worn-in, fielder’s glove. The palm absorbs the throw. Pain shoots across my left hand. I am electrocuted.
Next pitch. His throw back is high. I jump like a cat and snag it. The ball hit the pocket webbing of my glove. A one throw reprieve. He saw my reflexes. A nice little display. A little crack of confidence is in me. Can faggot’s snag a ball like that? How about heat? You want heat? Fuck him. I’ll give him heat. I uncork one into his catcher mitt. I get the satisfying sound. I know it does not hurt his hand in anyway possible. He unloads one back to me. SMACK. Electrocuted. The nerves are overloaded with pain. There is a numbing feeling at the bottom of my index finger. Now my eyes are watering. Thank you Jesus for this hat. I lower my bill and swallow what I can. He will never see my tears. I will not give him the satisfaction.
He wants heat? Fuck him. I’ll give him heat. I play an un-winnable game. The offense of his powerful arm is stronger than mine. The defense of his thickly padded catcher's mitt is stronger than my thin fielder’s glove.
I fire heat. He fires back. Shooting pain.
I fire heat. He fires back. Shooting pain.
The coaches are paying attention to my pitching. I am throwing heat. Fire for fire. Fire for fire.
Finally, the smacks of the ball against my glove are audibly noticeable. The coaches take a look. I hide my wet eyes. SMACK. The coaches confirm what they heard. To the catcher one of the coach commands, “Hey _____, slow it down.” Another coach throws in, “Not so hard”. I will not look at the coaches. I need to prove I didn’t rat him out, I didn’t complain. I didn’t show any pain. I throw whatever fire I have left. He tosses it back nice and gentle. I never cracked. I won.
That Monday, I got on the bus and two of the Malvern kids started their typical bullying. Some generic combination of “faggot” and a punch to my shoulder. Suddenly, the catcher stopped them. With a commanding voice he said, “Leave him alone, he’s cool”. They stopped. They never fucked with me again. Not even a little.
On future bus rides I will want to talk to him. I went to Devon Prep from sixth to ninth grade and my self esteem was shit the whole time. The bully was one of the few people that recognized I was good at something. I wanted more approval and I wanted to talk baseball. I wanted a cool friend.