Throwing Like a Girl Read Online Free Page B

head,
Frannie red and Maureen bangs
, so I won’t forget.
    “So, you weren’t on the team last year,” Frannie says, but not in a mean way.
    “No.”
    Maureen throws to me first, and the ball comes straight for my throat. I’m so caught off guard by how fast it sails right at me, and not sure how to open my glove—pointing up or down—that I just dodge the ball altogether. Maureen yells, “Sorry!” and I run to retrieve it. I pick the ball up from the grass and realize it’s bigger than I expected and not soft at all. The stitches are rough against my fingers as I stuff it into my glove.
    Coach saunters over from the bleachers. “That was a tough one to gauge,” she says, not just to me. She takes the ball from my hand. “Generally, all the balls below your waist, you’re down, like this.” She shows us with her glove, open with fingers pointing down. “If it’s above the waist, you’re this way.” She holds her glove up. If Frannie and Maureen already know these details, they don’t show it.
    “Here, Ella. Throw it to me, nice and easy.” Coach tosses me the ball low, and I catch it, glove down, a little puff of dust coming off the leather. I feel grit on my teeth and lick my dry lips. She takes a few steps back. “Good. Now, right back at me.”
    I tighten my fingers around the ball and my knuckles go white. She yells, “Loosen it up! Nice, round motion.”
    Nice, round motion? What does
that
mean?
    I throw it, hand by my ear, and it thuds to the ground.
    She picks it up and trots over. Meanwhile, Frannie, Maureen, and the six or so other girls turn to watch.
    Coach puts the ball in my hand, shows me how to grip it, then stands to the side and tells me to relax my arm. “Just go limp. I’ll teach you the exact motion of how to throw, and then you need to do it over and over until it’s smooth and natural.”
    I can’t do this. Not in front of everyone
.
    But the next thing I know, she’s gently moving my hand all the way back like I’m swimming laps in a pool. The ball is higher than my head, my elbow aligned with my shoulder.
    “Weight’s back on your left foot to start, since you’re a lefty. Good. When you make the throw, your arm will come up higher, like this, and your weight’s gonna shift to your right foot as your arm goes forward.”
    By now, everyone is standing in a semicircle around me as she speaks. “A lot of the power should be coming from your body, your legs. It’s not about your arm as much as you think it is.” She’s talking to everyone now. They’re all listening. “You take a step and release that ball up here, not out there.”
    We try it again. She adjusts my arm, my elbow, my wrist. She shows me how to take the step with my foot. And then I throw it—and it flies. The girls clap.
    I can’t keep my face from smiling. I have
power
.
    “Not bad,” Coach says. “Not bad at all.” She looks at the group of us and adds, “Now you know the secret of how to throw like a
real
girl. And don’t let anyone tell you that’s a bad thing. Got it?”
    We nod our heads obediently and go back to throwing. A few other players straggle out to the field and start to throw, too. Coach and I toss a few more together, even though it takes me about five minutes to go through my motion.
    When I rejoin Frannie and Maureen, they ask me what year I am and if I’ve ever played before. Frannie does most of the talking. She says she and “Mo” are also in tenth grade; I make a mental note of Maureen’s nickname and will remember to call myself a tenth grader from now on, since no one in Texas seems to use the word
sophomore
.
    “Did you play last year?” I ask them.
    “Yeah, but not in middle school,” Frannie answers.
    I’m less self-conscious throwing when we talk, so when Mo says, “Are you new here?” I nod my head and tell them I just moved from Chicago.
    Frannie stops. “Whoa. I love Chicago. They have great improv. I want to go to Northwestern and study theater