Confessions of an Adoptive Parent by Mike Berry

Author:Mike Berry
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780736970846
Publisher: Harvest House Publishers

I have a scar on my right knee. It stretches about an inch from my kneecap down. I received it the summer between sixth and seventh grade, more than 25 years ago. Back then, I played Little League baseball. I wasn’t the best on the team, but I wasn’t half bad either. I remember the moment I received this scar as if it were yesterday.

During a sweaty July game, I stepped off the first base bag and took a lead toward second. The pitcher was a righty, and I had an advantage. I had stolen a base earlier in the game while he still held the ball and had yet to pitch. This time I was going for it all. He wound up, pulled the ball into his dusty Rawlings mitt, kicked his knee up—and I was off and running full bore toward second base.

I saw the shortstop dart toward the back of the bag with his glove extended. No doubt the catcher was off his haunches, whirling the ball in my direction. I could see the bag approaching. I dropped to slide, extending my left leg out and bending my right leg back at the knee. As I hit the dirt, I felt a sharp pain in my right knee. The pain shot up my right side, landing in my shoulder.

My left foot was met with the shortstop’s glove with the baseball inside. As the dust whirled around me I heard the umpire’s voice—“OUT!” The opposing team’s stand went wild.

I stood up and began to limp back to our dugout—the pain in my right knee was getting worse. As I reached our dugout, I felt a warm sensation just below my right knee. My teammate looked at my leg with wide eyes.

“Oh man, Mike,” he snapped. “You’re bleeding!”

I looked down to see my uniform turning from gray to dark red just below my knee. There was a tear in my pants too.

My coach came over and began to examine my leg. “I think your day is done, Mike,” he said calmly. Under my uniform, just through the tear in my pants, a jagged rock had imbedded itself in my knee. I caught it as I slid into second base. The pain was almost too much to bear as one of the coaches and my dad worked to get the rock out of my knee and clean the wound behind the concession stand. I bit my bottom lip as they gingerly rolled up my pant leg and poured cold water over the wound. In the background I could hear the cheers from parents as our team eventually sealed a victory.

To this day, anytime I’m wearing shorts and I see that scar, it reminds me of the day I got thrown out trying to steal second base. It reminds me of failure. It takes me back to having to sit out the rest of the game because of an injury. It serves as a painful reminder of what I didn’t accomplish.

Do

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