“I did everything Fred Astaire did, only backwards
and in high heels.” – Ginger Rogers
I am often reminded of this quote. I am not sure exactly why except maybe I feel seen or somehow it’s a somber reminder of my, and apparently Ginger’s experiences in this world. I thought about this as I sat at the conference room table while they prepared my boss for his upcoming engagements. He was going to be throwing out the first pitch at a baseball game.
It is not uncommon for Major League Baseball Teams to honor service members and from time to time and ask them to throw out the first pitch at a game. It’s a humbling honor and my guess, it was his first time, based on his questions. He was excited and something about my demeanor must have suggested that I had something in common with this upcoming experience.
I remember that day vividly, as I walked out to the mound in what I would call an intimate ball park, Wrigley Field. Now I don’t care who your favorite team might be, but I think everyone can appreciate the ivy-covered outfield walls of this historic park.
As I stood on the pitcher’s mound, I paused a moment and began to turn around deliberately and take it all in. As I rotated counterclockwise, I felt like the world was in slow motion as I scanned the stands, smirked at my own memories in the bleachers, studied the scoreboard, and then looked towards the dugout where I found my husband and sons with the coach, Joe Maddon. I then followed the foul line and located my proud father. He stood there in disbelief-he was standing on Wrigley Field.
I could see his own memories presenting themselves, of a boy, coming to a ball game with his dad. He lost his father while he was still a teenager yet already a veteran of the war in Vietnam.
After the pitch, I moved off the field and my father walked up to me. His larger than life grin almost hid his glistening eyes. “There is dust over my parents’ graves today.” He was suggesting their joy (jumping up and down) and he knew they would have been so moved to witness this experience.
It was about more than the memories we were making that day. It was the symbolism of baseball to our family and our nation. All four of my paternal great grandparents immigrated from what is now Poland in the early 1900s. None spoke English but all had an appreciation for their newfound homeland and assimilation was important to them and baseball was their love language, specifically the Chicago Cubs. They may have over-communicated it to ensure people knew they were Americans, proud Americans.
For as long as I could remember, we were Cubs fans which was odd since I grew up near the south side of the city. We ended up there because when my father was about 3, the landlord of his parent’s apartment in the city would complain if he saw the kids on the grass. One day, his father came home to find his mother crying because she had been reprimanded for letting the children play in the yard. My grandfather had enough of it and bought some land in the suburbs. After my parents married, my grandparents gifted them land on their property and my childhood home was built in Oak Forest.
They didn’t have much, but they had a yard for the kids and they had their Cubbies.
When I think of growing up next door to my paternal grandmother, I am reminded of her smile, sitting in an aluminum lawn chair made of plaid nylon webbing in the living room of her small, humble home. She sat in front of a black and white television, with rabbit ear antennas, and struggling for reception. She would look at me and say with a big adoring smile, “that Jody Davis is a cutie.” She never missed a game, and it brought her a joy, a memory of their blessing to be Americans. She didn’t have much but America and the Chicago Cubs so this opportunity to stand in the middle of Wrigley Field was even more special.
This was the discussion I wanted to have with my boss, but it was not the discussion we were going to have around the table. I was prepared for this conversation because he was not the first one surprised that I too had shared in this rare opportunity. The questions were always the same.
“Have you done this before?” he asked as I nodded.
“Did you get it over the plate?” Yes.
“Did you bounce it?” No.
“Did you throw it from the mound?” Yes.
These are the questions that I get asked and then I always lean in and provide the two disqualifiers that I know everyone can’t compete with…
“and I did it in heels and a skirt.”
Yes, compete. These questions are meant to unintentionally minimize the experience. As if it was wasted on me. I never want people to feel like they wasted an opportunity on me and my close to thirty years in the Army was spent trying to prove I was worthy of the chance that so few get in our country, in our world. As a result, I would work hard to assimilate into this male culture and then inflict additional requirements on myself. Requirements like throwing out a first pitch in heels and a skirt, or hiding a pregnancy or working during maternity leave or being overly apologetic or fearing I was wasting someone’s time. All to prove, or over communicate that I was worthy of the ask to serve.
And then I began to mentally compare this to the experience of my grandparents, being an immigrant or first generation American? This constant need to over communicate the worthiness of belonging. The stress of not feeling like enough and always in search of opportunities to prove value.
And as I sat at that conference room table, I began to wonder who I was proving my value to? Was it my colleagues or was it those before me that sacrificed so much to give me the chance to sit at this table, stand on that mound, or was it my own insecurities?
I began to reflect on the different trails that I have chosen and found that it is not uncommon for me to choose the harder one. Sometimes it is to compete with myself and at other times it’s to demonstrate to others that I can do hard things. To demonstrate I am worthy of the ask, worthy of the opportunity. It will not be wasted on me.
And as I sat their with that grin on my face, with a seat at the table, in my heels and skirt, I realized that maybe like my beloved Cubs, I wasn’t cursed but blessed to compete and clear that trail for the next generation.
