Safe at Home

Safe At Home

Kiyoshi Hirawa

My brother fought my dad at Griffith Family Counseling when I was twelve. Caught him coming back from the cookie table. Shouldered the old man. Knocked him backwards like Pete Rose crushing Ray Fosse. My mom’s screams were the birthing cries of my forced fandom. Strangely marvelous that a game we never watched was now an explanation for (but never an escape from) a dysfunction so deep and dark that Dr. Griffith flung his fist toward the door and barked, “You’re outta here!”

Neuroticism was normalized. My family wasn’t crazy. We were baseball players. Dad chucked the leg of the broken coffee table on his way out the door. Roger Clemens would’ve applauded. Piazza would’ve been pissed. My mother touched the car door handle twice with each hand. Got in and cleaned each finger with a separate handwipe. So what? Nomar couldn’t swing a bat without tap dancing and adjusting two-thirds of his gear. When my brother leaned out the window to scream red-faced at someone who cut us off, I shrugged. George Brett had beefed with pine tar.

Stopped at a convenience store. Two employees accused us of stealing. So we fought them. The guilt of throwing down an elderly clerk evaporated. If Pedro could toss Don Zimmer, I could roll a senior citizen. Cops arrived. Took my brother for shoplifting. Lenny Dykstra would’ve rolled his eyes. Not even grand theft auto? The cops cuffed and scolded my father. He seethed. Said he was a parent, not a father. John Kruk nodded. Not an athlete. A baseball player.

Then one spring day, I got traded. Expansion franchise, new owners. Same game, same rules. Different approach, different philosophy. They weren’t Puritans, they were baseball players. Chores before school, discipline replacing motivation, Ichiro taking cuts in the batting cage at dawn. Uncommon courtesy, the art of the apology, the secret garden of Gehrig’s gratitude. The hidden prep and the extra mile, being there when no one expects you to, Jeter flipping the ball to home plate. The discovery of community, the good of giving, Clemente normalizing nobility. And always, always, the exploding jubilance, victorious relief, and unfading exhilaration of being safe at home.

Kiyoshi Hirawa is a poet, writer, and former police officer who was wrongfully terminated after reporting sexual misconduct and rape committed by fellow police officers. Hirawa’s writing focuses on mental health, trauma, resiliency, hope, and providing a voice for the unheard, ignored, and overlooked. Hirawa grew up on Braves baseball and still has dreams about being the fourth starter in the rotation behind Maddux, Glavine, and Smoltz.

Elliot Lin is a college student who spends their free time musing about sports and how they shape or reflect identity. You can find their other baseball-related illustrations here, on Twitter, Tumblr, and Instagram.

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