Physical Limitations (Part 1)

My last post ended with a flashback to being 15 again and having a body that I took for granted. There was a reason I chose that age to reference, and I have been thinking a lot about that in the last few weeks. Every body has a time in which it starts to have limitations. For some, unfortunately, that is from birth. For others, that age can be well into the years many would consider one to be elderly. My "magic" number was 16.

To truly understand my story I need to bring you back a few years. I grew up in a normal house, in a normal family, in a normal neighborhood. In fact, I had the most "normal" upbringing of anyone I know. My parents are still together to this day, I had friends, and I had the normal ups and downs of childhood. There were bumps and bruises along the way. When I was 4 or 5 years old, my mom accidentally hit me in the head with a baseball bat. That was my fault completely. I didn't listen when she said not to come near her as the family played a game outside. One time I lost my fingernail when I got my finger stuck in a piece of our backyard swing set. All in all, I didn't have much to deal with as young child.

As far as my body is concerned, I remember riding my bike up and down the street for hours, swimming in our above ground pool and racing to keep up with all the boys in our neighborhood. I was a thin, pretty child with long hair and funny looking teeth (I'm missing two of them, just like my dad). One day my dad came home with a flyer for Little League Baseball, and my life changed in terms of my relationship with my body.

I was 10 years old at the time, and it's been 25 years since I thought of some of these memories. I would never have thought about baseball changing my life in these terms, but it was a BIG part of my life. It was during baseball that I learned what confidence was. Running the bases was something that required effort, just a little more than running up and down the street or in the cornfield with my brother and our friends. Swinging the bat and actually hitting the ball took just a pinch more coordination than riding our bikes down the hill and balancing with no hands. Catching a fly ball used more muscles than building the snow forts we would sometimes concentrate on for hours.

My mom and dad spent hours with my brother and I. They came to practice and games, then we would head out to play on our own at other times. There were injuries while I was learning this game. Oh, yes, there were injuries! I remember the time I was in a batting cage and the ball got pitched a little on the inside. It caught my finger between the ball and the bat, and I got a trip to the hospital out of that one. I found out broken fingers aren't fun, AND that my mom won't finish her soda after Dad uses it for an ice pack. I learned that injuries are all part of the deal if one wants to play sports. Some of those injuries I came to see as badges of honor.

After playing baseball for a couple of years we moved from Illinois to Arizona. At this time we decided it was time for me to switch from playing baseball with the boys to playing on a softball team for girls. The boys were just getting too big and strong for me to keep up with. The transition from baseball to softball was a smooth one, with me finding out that I had a distinct advantage over the other girls. I had learned to be okay with the rough and tough attitude the boys played with- bumps, bruises, scratches- it was all good.

What does all of this have to do with physical limitations and me specifically? Stay tuned for my next blog post to find out!