Is this Normal (Part 2 of Many)

When I was 11, I played little league. Except I was a little squat surly fuck. I played baseball because it beat getting chased down the street by the white kid across the street and his dog. Our team was great, The Perth Amboy Fire Dept sponsored us, so we were called the Firemen. We were like the bad news bears, scruffy, shaggey headed, diamonds in the rough...only add abject poverty and remove the uplifting victories at the end.

Anyway, I got put at shortstop for reasons that defy logic and reason. It was agreed that I was generally pretty slow, however I was squat and it was possible that many balls hit my way would find some part of my body to bounce off of and manage to stay on the infield where either I or our much more talented 2nd baseman could then make a play. The only problem with this strategy was that I was gun shy. A ball got hit my way and I was suddenly the fastest show on dirt, ducking, running and diving AWAY FROM THE BALL!

My mother completely exasperated with this scenario did not know what to do. My dad, you see, has always had a bad back, so with the exception of the times he showed me how to kick a soccer ball, we never really had much bonding around playing sports.

Seeing her options limited, my ever resourceful mother turned to her sister's husband, a good guy, and a former decathlete. Growing up in the DR, he was also a reasonably decent baseball player. We had always gotten along well enough, though he was in his mid twenties and I was barely 11. After observing my acrobatics on the ballfield, he decided that my limitations were not physical, but rather mental. It was clear to him that I had a fear of a baseball, and this was the only thing that kept me from being a diamond legend. A fear he, of course, committed himself wholeheartedly to eliminating.

His approach was interesting to say the least. One day, he arrived at my house and asked me to bring some baseballs. I brought out my glove, a few baseballs and a bat assuming he was going to hit them my way and maybe I would field them. Maybe I would field them or maybe I would execute a triple back flip and just barely avoid the spray of balls hit my way. It made no difference to me, I was good either way. Instead he just picked up a ball, and looked at it. He held it in his hand pensively, maybe he was trying to understand its weight and its hardness, maybe he was sort of checking it for scuff marks. I stood there examining him as he examined the ball. Suddenly, from a distance of about 5ft, he wound up and pelted me with it.
Then he started yelling

(translated from Spanish) "Its, just a ball, its just rubber. You can't be afraid of a ball"

And then he hit me with another one. Spit was now shooting from his mouth as he yelled.

"Does it hurt? No, it doesn't hurt. If someone wanted to hurt you they would use the bat not the ball."

The bumpasaurus, not sure what to do, broke for the house, lest someone decide to start screaming in Spanish and throwing baseballs at him. He did turn at the door and let out a fat grin, as he drifted safely into the moderately warm embrace of the Household on Alpine St.

This went on for a few hours and though painful, I recognize this as a moment where I turned a corner and where I found a new friend, a great friend, or possibly just a well intentioned but borderline abusive friend.

The next week, the shortstop experiment was over, I had been replaced by a small, fast kid freshly immigrated from DR and I was relegated to the outfield. But still something changed. I scored 8 runs and stole 12 bases in a 22-4 romp over a rival team. I was also hit by a pitch all 8 times I came up to bat. Rounding the bases at one point, I caught my mother's eye in the stands, I could tell she was confused (she never really understood biesbol). She was able to figure out I was doing things more or less right though, and for a second (just one) I saw a vague hint of pride wash across her face.

Does any of that seem normal?