I remember being 17,18,19 years old and playing softball with the block. Playing the outfield. Running around. Back in my In shape days, I'd run laps around almost everyone. Jump as high as the highest jumper and play as long as the day lasts. I fondly recall playing center field and having my parents walk by and stand and stare for a bit. I remember my dad there. Watching. They were far enough that I couldn't hear them breathe but I could hear what they would say. Nothing got by me in the open field. I could catch almost any fly ball hit my way. In that one moment when my parents decided to stop and watch I dropped a ball. It was a fly ball I could've caught. But I didn't. Just didn't. Probably the only ball I dropped that afternoon. My dad says "Que maleta", which in English simply translates into shake my head, bum, you suck. Honestly I would've preferred to hear you suck. Everything in a Hispanics life sounds worst when said in your native tongue. Stupid. Worthless. Waste of height. Anything you say in English sounds worse in Spanish. Why wasn't I put in Little League when I was younger? Or Basketball camp? Or anything that would've resulted in me being someone that my dad actually said something good about. People wonder why you grow to dislike someone. What can possess someone to veer into the direction of hate. What can make someone be so insensitive. So heartless. I don't regret the way things are. I may regret them later in life. But for now I don't think twice about how my relationship with my dad is. People say and do things that affect others. Some more than others. It's life. Live with no regrets.
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