He hated baseball.
Kurt scowled down at his cleats, using the tip of his metal baseball bat to tap dirt out of the grooves. He hated his Little League uniform with a passion, ugly brown and yellow jerseys that showed no taste or style whatsoever, caps that mashed his hair down into weird unnatural shapes, plain ugly tube socks with stripes at the top, cleats that tracked dirt wherever he went and made an undignified clomping noise on hard floors, and worst of all, stirrup pants. White, so they showed every speck of dirt, naturally.
More than the uniform, he hated the game itself. Long, endless innings full of nothing special, interrupted by occasional bouts of shrieking and cheering when one of his teammates, or one of the opposing players, actually made contact with the ball. That didn't happen very often. It never happened to him. He couldn't help it if he squeezed his eyes shut every time he saw the ball hurtling towards him! It was scary. When he had to play a field position, they always stuck him in right field, way too far away for any nine and ten-year-olds to actually hit the ball to him.
Sometimes the coach made him pinch-run for somebody and that was kind of okay, except that the other guys always claimed he ran like a girl. He didn't mind being compared to a girl, usually, but in this case it was embarrassing. Especially when four of the kids on his team were girls and they could all outrun him.
He only played because Dad had been so enthusiastic about the idea. Kurt's mom had died last year and his dad had not really been happy about anything since then. He was always sad and quiet and most of the things Kurt liked to do, his dad didn't really find interesting. So, when Dad had suggested that he try out for the new Little League that his school district was forming, Kurt had seen the excitement shining in his eyes and agreed to give it a try. He still wasn't quite sure how he had actually made it onto a team, but he suspected that the fact that Hummel Tires and Lube was a league sponsor might have had something to do with it.
Someone nudged him in the ribs and Kurt looked up, realizing that the game was about to start. He stood up and took his cap off, ready to listen to the National Anthem as usual. To his surprise, the coach walked up to the P.A. microphone and gravely announced that Mike Holderfield, the assistant coach who usually butchered . . . that is, sang the anthem, was sick today so the ritual would be skipped.
More than one spectator shifted uneasily at that. It was not only bad luck; it was practically sacrilegious to skip the National Anthem before a baseball game!
Before he even realized what he intended to do, Kurt shouted, "I'll sing it!" and found himself jogging out towards the coach.
He caught a glimpse of his father up on the wooden benches, mouth gaping with shock. Before anyone could stop him, Kurt grabbed the microphone from Coach Ripley's hand and pushed the button, causing a loud squeal of feedback that made everyone in the surrounding area cringe and cover their ears.
The other players laughed. "Nice high note, loser!" one of the kids yelled.
Embarrassed and wondering what had possessed him, after all he never sang in public, Kurt licked his lips and took a deep breath. Holderfield usually brought background music with him, a tinny old recording on a boom-box, so this was going to have to be a'capella.
Removing his cap once again, Kurt placed it over his heart, cuing everyone else to automatically do the same. Squeezing his eyes shut like a fastball was coming straight for his head, he began to sing. "O-oh say can you see, by the dawn's early light…" He did not dare to open his eyes until the very last note had been carried away on the breeze. There was no sound! Had he been that horrible? Opening one eye, Kurt looked out at the stunned spectators and timidly added, "Play ball?"
Suddenly, the crowd burst into life with enthusiastic claps and whistles, led by Kurt's father who bellowed, "That's my boy!"
Relieved beyond measure, Kurt sketched a little bow and ran back to join his teammates. He smiled proudly, hoping for a few words of praise. Instead, they just stared at him. A few offered tentative smiles but others, the same few who always bullied him no matter what he did, just gave him weirdly contemptuous scowls.
"You sound like a girl," one boy told him snidely. "You run like a girl, you play ball like a girl, and you sing like a girl. Geez, Hummel, you're such a freak!"
Kurt shrank back, trying to make himself as small as possible and watched his fellow players run to take their places on the field. Tears welled in his eyes and he stood. Hoping his father wouldn't hate him for it, he put his cap and his bat on the bench and walked away towards the parking lot.
He was done with sports. Forever!
"Kurt? Kurt, wait up!"
He turned at the sound of his father's voice. Swiping at his eyes and nose with the back of one hand, Kurt snuffled back his tears, not wanting his dad to see them.
"Hey, where you going, buddy? The game is just beginning." Burt crouched down in the grass, studying his son's reddened face. Using his thumb, he brushed away a missed tear from the boy's cheek. "Why are you crying? You were great back there!"
The praise had the opposite effect from what Burt had intended. Kurt flung both arms around his neck and blurted out, "I don't want to play baseball anymore! I hate these stupid stirrup pants, and the way we suck worse than anybody else in the league, and the way everybody says I do everything wrong even when I don't! When I sang the anthem and everybody cheered, I thought I'd found a way to fit in, but they just called me names instead and I hate this game!" The rant dissolved into a torrent of tears and he sobbed, "I wish Mom was here."
Burt hugged him tighter. "Me, too. She would have known better than to push you into something like this, wouldn't she?" He sighed and released his son, brushing Kurt's hair out of his eyes before pulling a bandana out of his back pocket. Brushing it over the boy's face, he squeezed it around his nose and ordered, "Blow."
The little boy complied, struggling to regain his composure. "I don't want to disappoint you, Daddy," Kurt hiccupped. Taking a deep breath and steeling himself, he added, "And Hummels aren't quitters. I'll go back and play again, if you want me to."
"Nah, I don't think that I do." Kurt looked at him in shock and Burt smiled. "I know I always tell you that the Hummels aren't quitters, Kurt, but we're not dumb either. Your team's only got two more games to go and there are still fourteen kids left. There's not much point in playing a game if you're not having fun at it. And you haven't had any fun this season at all, have you?"
Biting his lip and studying the ground in shame, Kurt shook his head. He hated being a disappointment and he hated hearing the disgust in his father's voice. All Dad had wanted was a normal kid who wanted to do normal things. What kind of boy hated playing baseball, after all? Maybe he really was a freak.
"It's okay, son. Thanks for giving this thing a try anyhow." Burt squeezed his shoulder and stood, fishing his car keys out of his pocket and handing them to Kurt. "Why don't you go wait in the truck for a minute while I tell your coach you won't be coming back?"
Kurt obeyed the order, fretfully playing with the keys as he watched his father and Coach Ripley talk. Dad took his cap off and rubbed his scalp in that way he had that meant he was unhappy about something. Then, the two men shook hands and Burt clapped him on the shoulder as he turned and jogged back toward the truck.
As Burt climbed into the driver's seat and accepted his keys from Kurt, he smiled. "Well, then. Looks like we got the afternoon free, so what do you say to a couple of ice cream cones and then we go catch a movie?"
Kurt looked up in surprise, sighing in relief as he saw the affection shining in his father's eyes and realized that he really wasn't mad about the baseball team. "Really?" Burt nodded and excitement began to build inside of him. They hadn't gone to a movie together in forever! "Can we see 'Scooby Doo'?"
Burt chuckled. "Sure, why not? You'll have to hold my hand if it gets too scary, though."
"Dad, I'm not a baby! I'm not going to get scared."
"Who said anything about you? I was talking about me!"
He started the engine and they drove away, the high and low music of mingled laughter filling the truck as they left baseball fields and misunderstandings behind them.