This is something I wrote in 2006. This is fictional but I somehow based it on something. I’m not sure what that is and I don’t want to wring my brain in search of the answer. This was posted before in my Friendster blog. I just hope google won’t be penalizing me for duplicated content. But anyway, If you’re read to read the story, just prepare a hanky. Here it is:
A Game for My Brother
It was a prickly hot Saturday. I was supposed to be at home, enjoying my weekend. Or in the mall, busy strolling around while cooling myself down. But here I was, standing inside the diamond, holding firmly but nervously the baseball bat in my hands, and hoping that in my third try, I could hit the baseball somehow, even if just hitting it.
I focused my attention at the pitcher—on his moves, on his hands and on the baseball he was holding. And as he prepared to throw the ball, I positioned the bat in the right angle and readied myself.
“What an unlucky day!” I yelled.
Unluckily, I missed it again. The game was just a practice, though. But I knew that everybody took what I said as an excuse. Well, I admit, I’m a lousy player and because of this lousiness, playing in the game made my days calvarious. If it only weren’t required and compulsory to pass my PE class then I wouldn’t have to get through that situation. I wouldn’t have to make excuses.
I sat on one of the bleachers lined along the metal fence, feeling embarrassed of my performance for the last two months. I was sweating so I took out a hand towel from my backpack and dried my sweat. Then I drank from bottled water my mom gave me before I left home. For a while, I reflected on my situation and started asking myself—”What’s wrong with you?” “Why can’t you do it well?” “Why can’t you do it the same way John did?”
The last question made me remember my brother John. He was a former MVP of their baseball team but had to stop playing because he had lost his sight. A bottle containing chemicals used in developing photos was accidentally spilled over his eyes.
John and I, although five years in age gap, were more than just brothers. We were best of friends since childhood. Our father died when I was five; from then on, he stood as both an older brother and a father to me. A year before he got blind, I contracted dengue fever which made me severely ill. He spent most of his time in the hospital, watching over me. When the doctor found out that our blood types matched, John didn’t hesitate to donate his blood. Even though blind, he was always ready to support me.
That night, I talked to him. I told him about my problem. I thought he would be embarrassed of me but his reaction simply proved that he was really my bestfriend. He told me that he, also, had been through the same stage before he became an MVP. “And do you know what Napoleon Hill said? Effort only fully releases its reward after a person refuses to quit. So don’t quit. Trust yourself. There’s always a chance,” he said.
Three weeks later, something I didn’t expect and would never want to expect happened. We were in a coffee shop when the cops had an encounter with bank robbers. I heard a shot of a gun then another one and another one. People panicked. Too late, John was critically hit near his heart. He blocked the strayed bullet that was supposed to be mine (he may be blind but his sense of hearing functioned well). I took out my mobile phone from my pocket and called an ambulance.
As we head to the hospital, tears started to spring from my eyes. I couldn’t help myself but to cry. But crying didn’t do anything to make him well. John died, but before he went into the light, he told me these words: “Make sure that your life is worth saving.”
It was already in the interclass meet. I could hear the spectators’ voice, shouting for their respective bets, and I was again standing inside the diamond. It was, once more, my turn to hit the ball. But this time, it was different. I could feel the adrenaline rushing into my nerves. My shoulders squared and relaxed. My body in the best position. And the bat accurately angled as my hands firmly held it. I’d never felt the same confidence before.
The pitcher threw the ball, and in a swing of my arms, I’d hit it to a home run. At last, I did it.
At the end of the game one of my teammates asked me, “How did you play so well?” And I replied, “This is the first time my brother watches me play.”
image source: http://www.flickr.com/photos/erin_ryan/2497491105/



















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