Hannah is a pitcher. 

She has a mean fast ball.

She is dedicated.

She is hard working.

She is talented.

She loves the game.

Her fast ball has been clocked at 35 m.p.h.

Hannah is nine years old, and she plays softball.

The hard determination in her eyes as she stands on the mound seems diametrically opposed to the softness and playfulness of her long ponytail that bobs and bounces out the back of her oversized baseball cap as she works her pitches.

She is the professional’s professional . . .  most of the time.

Then, there was the other night.

Hannah was on the mound. It was the bottom of the last inning. She was working on a three-hitter (Yup. She had hit three batters during the game.)

There were two outs and the bases were loaded.

Hannah’s team was ahead by a run.  That meant that the tying run for the other team was on third, and the winning run was on second.

The count on the batter was full.

Hannah’s father, Mike, (who is also the coach of the team) looked out at his daughter.  He knew the pressure that she was feeling.  

Mike is the son of Mary Ellen’s cousin. (Don’t ask. I don’t know what that makes him to me. Some relation, three times removed. Or some crap like that. I don’t know, and I don’t care.)

What I do know about Mike is that, like his brother Andy, he is a warm, caring human being with a great sense of humor, and he is also a loving and involved father.

Mike stood at the edge of the dugout, arms folded across his chest, watching his daughter/pitcher and analyzing her facial expression and her body language. He noticed when her usually steely gaze to the batter suddenly softened.  He watched her square little shoulders slump forward.  Then, he saw when her big eyes that peered out from over top of her poised baseball glove squeezed out a few large tears.

Mike immediately turned to the home plate umpire and called for a time-out.  Then he trotted to the mound to find out what was going on.

 When her dad reached the mound, the ace pitcher dissolved into a little girl as she broke into uncontrolled sobs.

“What’s going on, Hannah?” Mike asked.

Hannah bit her lip and glanced over at the runner on third. She hesitated for a moment, and then she blurted out, “That girl on third base is in my class. If she scores now, she will tell everybody in school, and they will laugh at me!”

Mike’s heart began to melt as he saw the pain his daughter was in. He watched the tears stream down her cheeks, and he struggled with the paternal urge to take her in his arms and tell her that everything was going to be all right.  He fought off the almost overwhelming desire to take her and shield her from the evils of the world.

Instead of becoming an overly-protective parent, Mike stood directly in front of his little girl and said, “Hannah. Look at me.”

She didn’t.

“Look at me!” he said in a firm yet non-threatening voice.  “I want you look at me.”

She did.

“You are in a situation...Look at me!...It is difficult, but it is not the end of the world. …I said look at me!...If you throw a ball or allow a hit, the other team scores and could possibly win the game. If that happens, we will go home and have supper, and you will still have all your friends, and your dogs, your sister and your mom and I will still love you and think the world of you.  The worst that will happen is that some kids at school will poke fun at you.

“If you throw a strike, the game’s over.”

Mike then reached out and squeezed his daughter’s shoulder. “I love you, and I’m proud of you, no matter what.” he said softly. Then he turned and headed back for the dugout.

When her coach left the mound, Hannah wiped her eyes with her baseball glove. She looked past the batter and stared at the catcher’s mitt so far away that was her target.  She squared her shoulders, heaved a heavy sigh, wound up, reached back, and . . .

threw a strike.