I was perhaps 11 years old. There was a girl, an older woman of 14 or so years old. Her name was Betty Tate. She lived in a rental house nearby. Whenever she was outside sitting on the steps with the other girls, I was there with moon eyes looking at her. I would do anything for her.
One warm sunny day there was a softball game over at the Garfield school playground. I was playing catcher for my team; Betty was on the other team. She had never played softball or even held a baseball bat. Her team told her how to swing the bat when the ball was reaching home plate. What they didn’t tell her was to step into the ball and swing away. The ball was pitched and nearing home plate. Instead of stepping forward and swinging the bat, she stepped backward and brought the bat back to get a full swing. Instead of hitting the ball she hit me right in the forehead.
My forehead split open and there was blood running like an open water tap. Lucky for me, the local police officer, Mister Hilderbrand, was walking by the ball field. He rushed to me, pulled out his handkerchief and pressed it to my forehead, then walked me home. My mother was freaked out when she saw me. Grandpa was home and he took us to the doctor. I got a few stitches along with a bump on my head.
That bump is still there 68 years later. It’s faded and not as large as it was. When I look in the mirror and see it, I still remember that day and Betty.
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