Culton 1

Ella Culton

Mrs. Diaz

Personal Narrative

26 October 2018

“My Dad, The Mets, and Me”

“Bases loaded… Wright is stepping up to the plate. If he can just hit this ball, the Mets

will have a fighting chance in the game”. My dad turned up the radio, and bumped his fist into

the steering wheel.

“I’m telling you, this is it, this time they will finally win a game” my dad said to me as he

turned the corner.

We were heading up to my first college visit of the year, and as was our habit we were

listening to the Mets game. Unfortunately, we chose the worst team in baseball to love. The Mets

were definitely not having their best season, hardly winning any of their games.

Regardless, I loved listening to the game with my dad. Even if it looked like the Mets

weren’t going to win, he never gave up hope that they would make a comeback.

As we would listen inning after inning, mistake after mistake, he would still tell me that

they had a chance to turn it around and win the game.

Blue, orange, and white. I swear that my dad bleeds these colors. He has been a Mets fan

his entire life, and for all of the important moments, there seems to be an equally significant

Mets game or season right along side it.

For a long time I resisted being a Mets fan because I didn’t see the purpose. Baseball took

so long, and in the end it could come down to a few base hits or terrible pitching in the first
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innings. What was the point in even watching? I voiced my opinions on this often, and my dad

always used to feign hurt, clutching his heart dramatically.

Even though I resisted, I found it hard to hate baseball after listening to it for so long.

When I’d wake up in the morning, wiping sleep from my eyes, the first thing I would hear was

commentary about the game from the night before, or the start of pre-game talks, predicting how

the game might play out. After a long day at school, I would kick off my shoes and pad into my

parent’s office, following the gruff voices of the Mets announcers. After 5 years, I finally

cracked.

I asked my dad if I could listen to the Mets game with him, and I swear it brought a tear

to his eye. He had finally got me.

After that, we listened to the game every day, talking about all of our favorite players,

and the hope we had for the upcoming season. I had been close with my dad, but now we had

this unspoken bond of baseball. Now, when I heard WOR 710, I thought of my dad.

I think I clung onto this bond with him because he was gone for long chunks of time

when I was growing up. Some years, I would only see him a handful of times, and when he

would be home, he was distant. He was always hidden behind the dark mahogany door. I craved

attention from him, anything to show that he would be around. I can still remember birthdays

where my mom would rub my shoulder and sigh. He would make grand promises to me, and

then I would be left disappointed with yet another flimsy birthday card in my hand.

When I was a little older, my dad lost his job, and suddenly he was home more than ever.

It was so odd to see him around the house. I was so used to the excitement of him coming home

for a short time, and seeing him for months at a time was so strange.
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He tried not to show his sadness, but it seeped through in moments when he thought we

weren’t looking. He would collapse in upon himself, more fragile and weak than I had ever seen

him. My dad was strong, and brave. He was never sad or afraid. He always knew what was

coming next, and he would make sure we were okay.

Through it all, my dad listened to the Mets. I think for a while it was his lifeline, keeping

him from sinking more deeply into his disappointment. When they would win a game, he would

perk up, laughing and smiling like he used to, finally relaxing. When they would lose, he saw it

as his own failure, as father, as a husband, as a provider.

With time and effort my dad has gotten back on his feet, coming close to who he used to

be. When I became more independent, and close to moving out, he and I had more honest

conversations about his challenges and struggles, and the parallels in myself. As my mother put

it, I am my father’s daughter.

In high school, I started to feel the same deep rooted sadness I saw in my father. I felt like

a failure, not good enough to make friends or be a good person. In my own sick way I thought

that if I could be perfect in the ways I could control, it would balance out all of my flaws and

imperfections. I went crazy. I didn’t care who I hurt as long as I could get the good grade, and be

viewed as put together and smart. I went farther and farther down the rabbit hole without even

realizing it.

Eventually, when I couldn’t hide the signs anymore I got “help”, and learned what I

needed to do to make people think I was okay, that I had fixed myself, and was a brand new me.

Underneath the lies was the same scared little girl, afraid to fail, and afraid to try.
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As I spouted words of positivity and kindness I still hated myself, and couldn’t get out of

the perfectionism that was holding my head and heart captive.

During the wrong time, or maybe the right time, I met a boy. He loved the person I

pretended to be, and was there for me in all of the times when I would let myself go, not much,

but just enough so I could breathe. I was terrified that I would let myself slip one day, and he

wouldn’t love the person that I truly was.

I tried for so long to be the person he wanted me to be, the person he thought I was, but

my facade was slipping, and the smile I would plaster on my face couldn’t hide the tears in my

eyes. I let myself become a person I didn’t know. I let myself do things I didn’t want, forcing

back the fear and sadness, pretending that it made me happy. I let myself slip farther away,

wrapped up a toxic relationship I couldn’t see I needed to leave.

When it ended, I thought my life was over. The one person I had convinced to love me

figured it out. How could anyone else love this fraud? I thought it was over because I was a

failure, and he had finally realized the truth. As I recovered, picking up the sharp pieces of my

heart, I learned that this had been opportunity knocking on my door. I was free to be

authentically me, and happy with who I am. The vines that had wrapped around my heart were

finally gone.

Through it all I had my dad, my rock, the person who I felt I could be most honest

around, where I was the safest. He understood the sadness, the anger, the disgust with myself. He

had felt it himself. I slowly built myself back up, independent, free. I knew he was always there

to catch me if I fell. I was moving back up, becoming the person that I had once pretended to be.
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I clung to the Mets, to the nine inning games where dreams could be crushed or made. Blue,

orange, and white now runs through my veins.

When we listen to the game now, my dad will say, “This is it, this will be their

redemption season. It’s a new start, a new day”. It’s in moments like these when I’m not sure if

my dad is talking about baseball, or about me.

Baseball is so much more than just a game for my dad and I. It represents our pasts and

our presents, and the possibility for a better future. Just like the Mets always have a chance of

overcoming the odds, so do we in our lives.

My life is not perfect, and I have no figured everything out. I still have moments where I

want to curl up into a ball, reverting back to old habits. But I remember that each day is a new

day, with new opportunities for me to be the best person I can be.

I don’t need to be perfect, and always in control. I’ve learned that it’s okay to feel “fixed”

and then to be broken again. I have friends who love me exactly as I am, and not just as who I

want them to see. They embrace the messy, the ugly, and the complicated. Life is the like the

nine innings of a baseball game; you can’t give up hope in the first inning, and there is always a

chance to turn things around. You have to live those “nine innings” the best you can, and fill

your dugout with people who love and support you. Behind every player there is a team that has

helped them to get where they are.

Although I didn’t realize it at first, my journey has been like to a baseball game. Each

inning of my life posed new challenges, with different successes and failures, rising and falling.

While I used to only see the flaws in the game, and would give up, I’ve chosen to view the world

as my dad now does. The game isn’t over ‘till it’s over. There is always hope.