He called me to the mound. I’d never pitched. I was nervous going up there for the first time, being in the center of the spotlight, when I threw pitches for practice before the batter came up to the plate. And when he did, there was a new confidence. My only mission was to strike him out. Then one… two… three pitches later, I sent him to the dugout. And then they called the next batter. One… two… three. I sent him to the dugout too. Up came the third batter with two outs. On the first pitch, the ball sailed from my hand to the right, and just like that, the ball struck him in the face. It was a fastball that had gotten away, and the batter fell to the dirt. He curled up and started crying. I felt like a murderer, an evil seed for hitting him that way, all because of an innocent pitch. People in the stands, mostly parents, started yelling:

“Get him out.”

“He hit my kid.”

“What’s wrong with you?”

But the coach kept me in.

“I really like your talent,” he said. “I want to keep you as the starting pitcher.”

So I was the starting pitcher for the Mt. Lebanon Giants. The season continued. I pitched in just about every game and struck out batters every inning. I never hit another boy. The coach loved to call me Benny. No other person did.

And then, when I was ten years old, my father moved me to Florida, Clearwater to be exact. The boys down there weren’t so nice. They treated me like I was nothing. I continued playing Little League, but the coach didn’t stick me in as the pitcher. Instead, he played his kid, who was awful. Sometimes I had to watch him from the dugout. Most times I had to watch him from right field, the worst position in baseball, where they stuck the scrubs. I knew I was better than that kid, but my father didn’t coach the team.

My parents didn’t appreciate how I was treated, so they sent me to a pitching camp in Orlando. I had to stay there for two weeks with others. We all shared the same room, to sleep in bunk beds. And they made us pitch from a regular mound on a regular diamond. I skipped a lot of balls to the catcher. My arm from that far couldn’t throw. My fastballs were limited.

On one of those days, I threw out my arm. My shoulder started hurting.

“What’s wrong with you?” one of the coaches there asked.

And I said, “I think I threw out my arm.”

“We’ll get you an ice pack to cool it down.”

But the ice pack didn’t work. My arm was still thrown out. I spent the rest of pitching camp with a hurt arm and couldn’t throw. The boys there would hurt me more with their teasing. The coaches weren’t so nice either. I missed home and wanted to go back, so I called my mother to pick me up. She drove several hours to Orlando from Clearwater and took me back after just a week. I told her what they made me do.

“That’s just ridiculous,” she said.

My arm still hurt, but it didn’t keep me from playing in Little League. The coach still played his son as the pitcher, and I still stood in right field. I had to ask the coach to put me in instead of him watching me at practice.

So one game, when his son was walking batters and giving up runs, he called me in from the outfield to begin practicing on the mound. The kids from the other dugout started laughing at my form. It was embarrassing. I didn’t want to be on the mound anymore despite my advanced skills. My parents were in the stands as the boys kept laughing. The first batter came up and I walked him after four straight pitches. But I struck out the next, and my confidence returned. The boys stopped laughing. I struck out the rest of the batters that inning and the coach chose me over his son for the next game. His son hated me for that reason. I never liked him anyway.

My pitching wasn’t as good after I threw my arm out at camp, so I walked a lot of batters and gave up hits and didn’t strike out as many. I watched my skills decline and worried if that could be it for my career.

I used to daydream in class about being the star pitcher for the Pittsburgh Pirates and striking out the side in every inning. But that dream came to a halt when my father made us move, this time to California, where they signed me up for Little League again. It was the same old situation. I was on a team where the coach started his son over me. The coach never even considered putting me on the mound. What a disgrace. I had to stand in right field just like before. I wanted to give up Little League and focus on a more individual sport like tennis, where there was less nepotism. But the coach stuck me in on the last game of the season to my surprise, and my skills came back. I struck out more batters than his son, and after the game, he said, “I should’ve put you on the mound more often.”

But it was too late. The season was over, and I would move on to high school that same year. I wasn’t about to try out for the team. I believed politics had taken over baseball, so I stuck with tennis instead. My father was disappointed, but it didn’t matter. I’d had too many negative experiences to continue with baseball, and to this day I don’t regret my decision.