Whack.
Whack.
Whack.
The sound of baseballs hitting a wooden target echoes through the backyard of a house in Royal Woods, Michigan. The thirteen-year old athlete of the family stands 60 feet, six inches from the target with three buckets full of baseballs surrounding her, forming a diamond with herself acting as home plate. She reaches into the bucket on her right, grabs another ball, and hurls another pitch at the target.
Bullseye.
She grins and repeats the action. Once again, another bullseye.
She keeps telling herself that she needs the practice, knowing full well that some vigorous activity will distract her from the fact that today is the one year anniversary of that infamous game against the Daisy Hill Daisies. The date has been circled on her calendar to serve as a reminder of what blindly following superstition can do.
Oh, don't misunderstand: she still has her superstitions. She still performs the Russian Cossack dance before every baseball game. Bombing the toilet before a big game? Still out of the question. Turning her cap? Like clockwork before every first pitch. But when it comes to the concept of luck? Just thinking about that idea now fills her with sadness.
It all started one year ago when she forced her younger brother to come to her baseball game. A game that her team, the Squirrels, wound up losing after she started to get cute with her pitch selection in the ninth inning. Since this was the first time that her brother attended one of her baseball games, she assumed that he was the reason they lost, labeling him as bad luck. He had taken that idea and ran with it, eventually convincing the entire family that he was a harbinger of doom. This led, naturally, to him being kicked out of the house and all his furniture being sold. He had been complicit in the charade, this is true, but who was the one that started it all?
Herself.
Who was the one that kept the rumor going long past the point it should have petered out?
Herself.
And who was the one that, even though it had been proven luck had nothing to do with it, made him stay in that squirrel costume?
You guessed it.
A few weeks after the bad luck incident finally blew over, she was in the locker room with her teammates preparing for that day's baseball game when she saw a brand new squirrel costume delivered to the clubhouse. A volunteer put the suit on and ran out onto the field to a raucous cheer from the crowd, but behind him, a totally different reaction ensued. The athlete said she needed to use the bathroom and quickly retreated to a stall far away from her teammates. She shut the door, put the seat down, sat, and began to cry. Hard.
That squirrel costume had proven to be the ultimate humiliation in a saga that was full of them. Forcing him to stay in that costume all hours of the day in the middle of summer, treating him as nothing more than a good luck charm...she had deserved the tongue-lashing her family gave her after the football game that day, and her brother's furious declaration echoed in her head:
"YOU ARE THE WORST SISTER EVER AND I HATE YOU!"
The bad memories just kept coming, and the athlete just cried harder. It was a blessed relief when her coach found her just before the game started, and to say he was surprised at her condition was an understatement. After taking stock of the situation, he decided that she was too distraught to pitch that day, and he turned over the reins to Debbie Green, a great pitcher in her own right. The Squirrels wound up winning that day, but the athlete never felt less like a winner in her life.
Today, however, she knows she's a winner. She knows she can pull this off. She knows this because she's Lynn Loud. So she picks up another baseball and hurls it at the target.
Bullseye.
Again.
Bullseye.
Again.
Same result.
She grins in satisfaction and has another baseball in her hand when she notices a squirrel jump out of the tree next to her and scurry across the lawn, jumping over the fence into the yard of the crotchety old man next door. Without warning, that same funk she felt during the return of the mascot begins to creep up on her, but she tries to put it out of her mind and throws the baseball at the target.
It misses.
She grunts, narrows her eyes, grabs another ball, and throws it.
It misses not only the target, but the entire block of wood it's been painted on.
She tells herself, "Come on, Lynn! Pull yourself together!" She grabs another baseball and concentrates on the center of the bullseye as hard as she can, only for a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach to cause her arm to start trembling and her knees to shake. The athlete shakes her head and calms herself, focusing on the target.
She winds up and throws.
The ball sails over the top of the block and into the side of the house.
Now frustration begins to set in as she grabs baseball after baseball and hurls them at the target, not caring where they may land as she tries to beat back the memories that have crept up on her. Tears well in her eyes as she throws harder and harder, imagining that the center of the target has transformed into the head of the squirrel suit. Everything she's throwing at it, however, is missing and missing badly. She lets out a scream of anger and frustration, picks up a bucket, and flings it at the target, a loud clang echoing through the backyard as the force from the impact scatters baseballs all over the grass.
The athlete stands and breathes as if she has just run a marathon. Tears are now flowing down her cheeks as she sinks to her knees and stares at the mess she's made. Then she hears the back door open and a familiar voice call out:
"Hey Lynn! You okay?"
She turns her attention to the voice and sees her little brother descending the concrete steps and walking towards her. He asks, "I heard screaming! Is everything all right?"
She wants to lie. She needs to lie. The athlete would like nothing more than to tell him that everything's okay and that she just threw a few bad pitches. But she can't. Her legs give out from under her and she falls to the ground, bowing her head. Lincoln can hear her hitched breathing, and he kneels down and asks, "Lynn...what's wrong?"
She sniffles and chokes out, "It's...it's been a year."
"A year? What are you talking about?"
"You don't remember?"
"Can't say that I do."
She allows a small smile at his one-liner and sits up as he sits down beside her. "You sure you don't wanna reconsider?" That phrase sets the wheels in motion in Lincoln's head, and after some racking of the brain, he realizes what today is. A huge surge of sympathy courses through him as he opens his arms and envelops the athlete in a massive hug, with Lynn returning the gesture and crying into his shoulder.
"Lynn, it's over," Lincoln says. "You don't need to worry."
"I just...this is gonna sound so stupid, but I saw a squirrel run through the yard, and...and I thought of you in that costume..."
"It doesn't sound stupid, Lynn," he assures her. "Sometimes when I see a squirrel, I think about it too. You're not the only one."
"I still can't believe it got so out of hand..."
"You don't need to keep beating yourself up about it. We've all forgiven you for what happened."
"I know, but...I just wish that I could forgive myself." She drags the sleeve of her jersey across her eyes and continues: "Sometimes I wonder if you still think I'm the worst sister ever."
Lincoln lets out a small gasp and replies, "How can you say that, Lynn? You help me exercise. You train with me. You gave up one of your trophies for me! There's no way that you're the worst sister ever. I love you. I love all of you. And nothing will ever change that."
This time, it's the athlete's turn to hug Lincoln, and she holds onto him like a lifeline, rocking back and forth as he returns the embrace. The only thing she can manage to say through her tears is, "I don't deserve you, Lincoln."
"Yeah, you do," he replies. "Don't ever forget that."
They break the embrace and lift themselves off the ground as the athlete wipes her eyes. She reaches over and picks up another baseball, but just before she drops into her pitching stance, she feels something brush up against her leg. She looks down and is surprised to see a squirrel running around her feet. "Well, if that's not a sign, I don't know what is," she cracks as the furry little creature plops down in the grass behind her.
Lincoln smiles as he heads back towards the kitchen door. "You gonna be okay?"
"Oh yeah. I'm about to set a new record!" She grins and throws the baseball at the target.
Bullseye.
AUTHOR'S NOTE
One year ago, my dad attempted suicide. I wrote "Sacrifice Fly" one day after it happened and posted it here and on deviantArt, not really bothering to edit it or anything because the emotions were still too raw. I'm still surprised at the reaction it got, especially something that came out of such a bleak situation. This fic was my attempt to lay whatever emotions I still had about what happened to rest, and I think it might have worked.
My dad is still alive, thank God, and has moved on from what happened. If you're feeling suicidal, call 1-800-273-8255.