It was a hot, lively summer day at Draper Park. I sat on the bleachers cheering on my third grade boyfriend as he played baseball. The air was abuzz with the cheers of overzealous parents, the crack of the bat against the ball, and the endless refrain of "Hey batter, batter, batter, batter!" But, over all the noise, I heard a pitiful cry for help.
I looked around and found the source of the crying. A little girl who looked about four years old stood on the roof of a pioneer-inspired log cabin. A little farther off, some laughing boys ran off with a tall wooden ladder. Without hesitation, I jumped off the bleachers and ran after them. I didn't know what I was going to do, but it turned out I didn't have to do much, because they dropped the ladder when they saw me coming. Who knew a scrawny, wild-haired third grader could be so intimidating?
I dragged the ladder back to the cabin and propped it up for the little girl. She climbed down sniffling and embarrassed. When she reached the bottom, she dropped something in my hand and ran off without a word. It was a dime. Now, that might not sound like much, but it happened to be just the right amount for an Airhead from the snack shack. I bought my candy and happily peeled back the wrapper, filled with warm fuzzies and a feeling of triumph.
I learned a very important lesson that day: Baseball was not my thing.