I was used to sitting on the sidelines. I always watched my 18-month older brother, Myles, smack the red stitched ball through the outfield. I was known as Myles’ little sister. I handed out the water, picked up the bats and gave cookies to the boys after every game. But this time, it was different.



“We need you Makaela,” my dad said trying to persuade me. My dad, being the coach of my brother’s team, insisted that I fill in that last position. “There are not enough players and without you we can’t play.”
Doubt flushed through me, but I couldn’t show my panic, so I hesitantly accepted this offer. As I did I felt the slightest bit of confidence.

Every day after school I would practice with my dad and brother. They would push me. I knew I was the team’s only option, and I knew I had to prove myself. I wanted to be more than just Myles’ little sister.



My dad handed me an extra uniform. Although it was flowing well past my knees, I felt as if I was meant to be on this team. The older boys gave me a high five and threw some sun flower seeds in my hand.
With my blue Nike sandals strapped to my feet, I fled to outfield. No action. But I was ready; every time a pitch was thrown I jumped to my toes as if it were coming straight at me. My brother told me not many hits went to that side of the outfield, but I did not want to take any chances.



I was last on the batting line-up. I knew I could hit a moving pitch. I have practiced in the back yard many times prior. No action. I walked to first base.



The game proceeded. I kept my eye on the ball where every it went. The game was coming to an end, and we were down by two runs. I was standing on first base, looking at my teammate on third. There was one out, and my brother was up to bat.
As the pitch was thrown, I only stared at my brother. He took all his energy and threw it into one swing. Center field it flew, and all eyes were on the ball. The outfielder, with a trying lunge, missed it.
My brother flew to first base, and my teammate on third was almost home. I took off. My dad always coached me to not watch the ball, but to run as hard as I could. So I did. Turning second, with my blue sandles leaving a beaded imprint in the sand. I fled to third. I looked up for my dad to tell me what to do. Everyone was cheering. I could hear my mom’s worrying voice hoping that I wouldn’t get hurt. The opposing team was screaming with anger. Then my dad pointed and yelled “Go home, go home, slide into home!”
Then my brother continued,” Go Makaela! You’ve got it!”
I rounded third, and could see the home plate. I knew I was safe, until I saw the ball. I slid, just like my dad said. My legs felt like they were rubbing on sand paper and dust flew into the air. Cheers were still flooding, as the umpire called out.


With bloody knees, sand in my hair and a broken spirit, I slowly stood up and walked to the bench. My brother walked over to me and said, “Go get the cookies” with a smirk on his face. At that point I realized it didn’t matter that I lost the game, I gave it my all.