A Picture Worth 746 Words

If you’ve ever seen a picture of the Roberts children, no doubt it was of three kids dressed in their best, standing in front of a Christmas tree or on the steps of St. Roses Church. Invariably, two of these children would be shining smiles.

The third, however, was perpetually on the losing end of a teary battle of wills with a curling iron wielding, aerosol hairspray toting stepmother. The eyes of the oldest Roberts child would be red and puffy, though not as puffy as her bangs.

I have one photo in my possession that stands as an exception to the customary holiday spectacle. From what I can glean, this rare image was captured for no reason at all. In fact, the only thing the three of us are doing is sharing a playpen. At age four, I’m holding my infant sister. Our middle brother is holding himself upright, no small feat for his age. Our faces are frozen in varying degrees of bemusement. The carpet is green and shaggy. My hair knows no stepmother or curling iron. In fact, the most remarkable thing about the photo is its unremarkableness.

Long before parents began uploading daily shots of their kids onto the internet; this picture was taken with film. If my parents had the option to view the image before printing, it would have likely been as fleeting as the moment itself. But this unexciting photo lives on to supply a sliver of illumination onto those early and formidable years.

And so, one last detail about the photo: Draped on the side of the playpen is a gray softball jersey.

Cue the creaking of the door to my imagination.

“Hey kids, how about you hang out here for an hour or so! Daddy has a game!” says the shirtless man. Snap. Parenting is easy! “Be good for mom!” Dad grabs jersey, three kisses and he’s gone.

When my memory does come into focus, I’m at a park and I’m yelling, “Wiggle your butt Franny!” to my dad, who dutifully does wiggle his butt just before cracking a softball with an aluminum bat.

Whack!

Three years later, I’m the youngest and smallest on my Miss C softball team by years and feet. A gaggle of girls huddle around a cardboard box full of new, yellow, team shirts. I want the shirt with the number four on it badly, but I’m not about to embarrass myself over it.

Sidebar: I might have still been reeling from a mortifying incident a few months earlier when I mistook the YMCA’s deep-end for the shallow-end and jumped in for a quick and terrifying dip to depths unknown. All this only moments after the mother of another swimmer pointed out the girl who wore a dance leotard (complete with sleeves) to the first day of swim lessons. (I self-rescued from the submersion but have never been able to dress myself properly).

Back at practice now, eyes squeezed closed, I reach into the box and pull the number four shirt. Holy cow Batman! I run to the pick-up truck where dad is waiting. I don’t have to say anything. I hold up the backside of my shirt. We drive away, both beaming.

I’ve heard the best way to become a doctor is to be born a doctor’s child. Police work, firefighting and teaching also seem to be inherited like a Roman nose. Likewise, many great hobbies are passed down through the generations. Sailing, I’ve gathered, is a birthright.

Beer league softball is like that for me.

At age 20, for the first time in my life, I boarded a plane. Seven or so hours after landing, I found myself in Telluride, Colorado. I picked up a Daily Planet. On the front page of the paper: A girl, sliding into home plate. She’s wearing a purple wig.

The soft ball that is my head went swimmy. My heartbeat stomped around the bases.

Two years later, I moved to Telluride for Beer League Softball. I stayed for the Beer League Softball.

Dad still plays. And all these years he has worn the same number: Four. It’s the number he picked his first season, back when that was the age of his oldest child and all his kids fit into one playpen.

When I come up to the plate on Sunday for our team’s season opener in Telluride’s Town Park, I’ll do what I always do, I’ll wiggle my butt for Franny.