Brenna Nation of Chickamauga, Georgia, a pitcher at Maryland who is pursuing a degree in English, will be a redshirt senior next season. Her father died in October 2015 from a rare degenerative brain disease called Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease.
As I pack up my gear and close the gate behind me, I turn back and look at the field where I fell in love with the game. A field that has now become a keepsake of memories for me, a place I go when I can't make sense of life no matter how hard I try. I've played on this field since I was 8. I practiced here so often that I learned where the bad hops would take place, where not to step when driving off the mound, and just how fast I could run a sprint to the foul pole when I needed a little extra push. When I used to look at the field, I saw my best friends, championships, and hours and hours of sweat and hard work. But looking at the field now, all I can see is you and me. That field is my home when I'm missing you.
I didn't want to pitch. I wanted to do many things, but I didn't want to pitch. More than anything I wanted to catch, and you let me try it. No surprise to you, I hated blocking, and when I threw my helmet off to catch a fly ball, I ran the wrong way because my glasses had come off with the helmet. The ball dropped close to the third-base line, and I stood almost at first. You laughed and we realized catching was never going to be for me. I agreed to try pitching and you couldn't wait. I took my first lesson from a well-known instructor in the area and you were sold. Over the next few weeks, you had more bruises than you wanted to admit, and my changeup had busted the light fixture out of the old gym. But you laughed, and I did too, even though I wanted to cry from embarrassment.
You made me practice more than all my friends and I hated it. I would argue and argue and I'd still end up on that field sending you the meanest looks I could come up with while you corrected my mechanics. I thought I knew more than you ever could. I mean, I was the one taking the lessons. Little did I know, you knew more than I ever gave you credit for. I probably should've listened a little bit better, but that just wasn't our style.
I kept getting older, but you were still there. Sitting on that old Worth bucket behind the plate, with some old raggedy mitt telling me to step on my power line, use my back leg, but most of all to believe in myself. I still avoided practices, but you always somehow caught me. It would be 6 p.m., and you'd drag me out to your old truck and we'd go to that field and throw. At times, I'd get so frustrated I'd start to cry, and you'd laugh and tell me to call the "wambulance," which always made me laugh whether I wanted to or not.
The more pitches I learned, the more excited you got, except when the drop ball came around. You'd be yelling, correcting stuff, and I knew what I had to do. I would throw the drop ball just short enough to where it would drop right in the dirt in front of your bucket. At one point you fell off the bucket backward trying to block the ball. I laughed and laughed and you were covered in dirt. I hadn't seen you that mad in a while, but eventually you cracked up. The drop ball became my favorite pitch to throw, and you got really good at blocking.
I tried to talk you into wearing gear, but you were too tough. Your shins had taken a beating, but otherwise you were perfectly intact. But that all changed with the rise ball. You loved the rise ball, but I struggled to throw it right, except that one time. I'll never forget the ball rising right up into your nose. I immediately started crying, but you laughed and wiped your nose with your shirt. You tried to make me finish my workout but Momma made you stop. I broke your nose that day, and I had never felt guiltier in my life. I hoped that maybe this would change your views on wearing gear. And yet, to no surprise, the next day I found myself on the mound looking straight at you, with your swollen nose, but without a mask on.
"Softball was our sport, and the field was our place to take our frustrations, our place to laugh, and create memories we would never forget." Brenna Nation
Things got tough the next couple of years; you were deployed several times with the military. But the only thing that changed was my catcher. Every video chat, we talked about my pitching, and you told me what to fix. Even from thousands of miles away you were the best coach I could have ever asked for. And I went from avoiding practices to looking forward to FaceTimes just so we could talk about how I needed to stay open and drive hard off the rubber. It's funny how those things change.
I got older and older and I left for college, and when I came home, my favorite thing to do was practice with you. It's funny how when you leave, things change. And we threw almost every day. You would take off work early, meet me at the field, and somehow you were still using that old Worth bucket that you started with. Coffee in hand, in your work clothes, you'd sit down behind the plate and say, "Sling it," and I felt overwhelming happiness just to be there with you doing what we always had done.
The summer of my junior year, you were still up for catching me. Your hair had started to turn salt and pepper and you had deep smile lines, but you could still catch as you had when I was 8 years old ... or so you thought. The first pitch I threw bounced right off your chest and you fell backward. I thought you would call it quits, and would just observe my pitching practices from then on, but you got up laughing, saying you were ready now. You didn't miss another pitch, and you told me it didn't hurt because I threw as slow as slow-pitch, but the bruise on your chest said differently.
I had a lot of plans for us for winter break, but sometimes God plans differently and decided you had fought the good fight and it was time for you to come home. Pitching wasn't easy, and when I came home, the field was too loud for me. I avoided it just as I used too, but you always had a way of making me go there even when I fought like crazy. So here I am, seven months down the road, at the place we loved so much. The place you had to drag me to, and then had to drag me out of because Mom had dinner made and was going to be mad if we stayed any longer. The place where I cried and argued, the place where you shaped me into the woman you knew I could be. The place where you gave me the best gift I could ever ask for: your unconditional love.
Things are different now. Your bucket is no longer behind the plate and your smile isn't the first thing I see when I throw a pitch against the backstop, but I know you're there. Softball was our sport, and the field was our place to take our frustrations, our place to laugh, and create memories we would never forget. I know I'll never find a better catcher than you, but I gained the most amazing guardian angel. I will never be able to explain how thankful I am for the love and time you gave me on that old dusty field, but as I lock the gate behind me, some part of me feels that you already know.
Thank you for everything, Dad. Happy Father's Day.