Her name was Melinda. She was the worst player on my childhood softball team and the only kid in class who didn\u2019t have to take the weekly spelling test. Melinda was special. That\u2019s what people like her were called back then. The kind that can\u2019t keep up with the other kids, whether on the sports field or in the classroom. She didn\u2019t talk much and she borrowed books from the purple bin at our school library. We all knew what that meant. Melinda was reading at a third grade level, and we were in sixth grade by then. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
It was during an art lesson that I noticed a crayon called \u201cfire engine red\u201d matched the color of her hair. The style and texture was like the yarn on a Raggedy Ann doll. Melinda may have lagged in intelligence, but she was hardly inconspicuous! <\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u00a0I don\u2019t recall ever having an actual conversation with her. Except on the ballfield. That\u2019s where I not only talked to Melinda, I yelled at her. We all did. Every time she walked toward the plate, the entire team hurled our best, most inspirational words toward Melinda, who always batted last in the lineup. In case you don\u2019t know, that\u2019s the batting-order equivalent of reading from the purple book bin.\u00a0<\/p>\n\n\n\n
It always seemed Melinda was at bat when the game was on the line, so our yelling persisted. Perhaps adolescent emotional intelligence led us kids to believe she could do something wildly out of proportion to her ability. Like make it to first base. Occasionally, she would actually hit the ball. But, running was another weakness and she was always thrown out. Having her on the team was a liability, a gimmie, and a sure out. She was an anchor, the kind of kid that\u2019s last to be picked, last in line, last in any order of things beyond just batting.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Now that I have kids of my own, this last stuff strikes a chord that pulls my heartstrings. Thankfully, I do remember us kids simply accepting Melinda despite her deficiencies. I, along with all my classmates, always attended her birthday parties. This was back when everyone in the class was invited over for cake and ice cream at someone\u2019s house. I guess this made Melinda and me friends of some sort. The kind that comes from experiencing childhood together.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I can\u2019t recall if we won or lost the games when Melinda was on my team. But I do remember her smile. Even when she struck out. Even when she barely played because first and last batters in the lineup have different number of times at bat. I can still picture her mom gathering up their belongings after the games, and Melinda waving an enthusiastic goodbye as if we were real friends rather than just classmates or players on the same team by circumstance. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
It\u2019s been decades since this time and sometimes Melinda will pop in my mind. I wonder what became of her? I wonder if her hair is still as fire engine red? I wonder what happens to all the Melinda\u2019s of the world, the ones picked last, who remain last, while the others grow up and move forward. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
Mostly, I wonder why I wonder this at all? I have no explanation, except that the wondering feels a little like wandering back to a time that was rather wonderful. I miss it, and I pray for all the Melindas making their way in the world. They might be last, but they\u2019re also first in ways only some will understand. <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
Her name was Melinda. She was the worst player on my childhood softball team and the only kid in class who didn\u2019t have to take the weekly spelling test. Melinda was special. That\u2019s what people like her were called back then. The kind that can\u2019t keep up with the other kids, whether on the sports … <\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":2408,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/stumblingtowardartistry.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2407"}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/stumblingtowardartistry.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/stumblingtowardartistry.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/stumblingtowardartistry.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/stumblingtowardartistry.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=2407"}],"version-history":[{"count":21,"href":"https:\/\/stumblingtowardartistry.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2407\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":3051,"href":"https:\/\/stumblingtowardartistry.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2407\/revisions\/3051"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/stumblingtowardartistry.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/media\/2408"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/stumblingtowardartistry.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=2407"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/stumblingtowardartistry.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=2407"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/stumblingtowardartistry.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=2407"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}