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Short Stops and Long Games
By Stephanie Kemp
Short Stops and Long Games
By Stephanie Kemp
I keep meaning to write about the time I was 13 and if someone would have told me I could be a boy I would’ve said, YES PLEASE RIGHT NOW THANK GOD AND/OR YOU MOTHERFUCKER WHOEVER YOU ARE.
Now before you go getting angry and/or cancelling me, let me explain:
I.
Loved.
My.
Childhood.
I was an athletic kid.
A happy tomboy.
Eloise without the Plaza.
Half Pint or OJ on my best day (1970s OJ only),
Nellie Oleson on my worst.
(I mean Nellie in nastiness only - I never wore flowery dresses or forced ringlets, and I never ate free candy from my parents’ general store. Also, please don’t confuse Nellie Oleson with Merlin Olsen, who was another great football player before he became and actor and appeared on Little House on the Prairie as Mr. Garvey, who always did his best and was very strong. I would have loved to be Merlin Olsen...or Mr. Garvey.)
Allow me to explain…(further):
In 3rd grade I was on the light blue softball team. (Bluejays?)
I played shortstop and batted clean up, hitting a home run almost every time at the plate. (And I’m sure I don’t have to tell you how good my arm was, if I was playing shortstop.)
In 4th grade I was on the green team. (Cougars?)
First base (I was obviously also a great catcher) and pitcher (who was always the real star of the team, no matter what the grown ups pretend or try to tell you). Still batting clean up.
(It was also the first year I got to compete in field day. I placed first in the long jump, a surprise strength I didn’t even know I had.)
In 5th grade I was on the yellow team. (No idea what our name was, but who likes yellow anyway?)
Third base/still clean up, until mid-season when we switched from using regulation baseball (this means boy) sized softballs to big (this means girl sized) softballs and I couldn’t figure out my timing or placement on how to crack that awkward fucker of a ball or why we had to switch balls in the first place. I never hit a home run again and was moved to center, and eventually, right field.
(To add insult to injury, I came in second in the field day long jump.)
6th grade. Red team. (Cardinals, maybe? Who cares.)
Still playing, but now begrudgingly and sucking-ly. My coach told my mom it was time to get me a bra, “or those things will be sweeping the floor.” And yes, this was as awful live as it sounds being typed out, 44 years later, times 3 billion.
(I also came in third in the long jump.)
This was the year that:
The boys no longer let me play football with them.
(Did I even want to? Ask? Try?)
The girls became unrecognizable (myself included - the real me would never have ASKED to play anything.)
I had no idea whose body I was living in or how to behave in it, so part of me died of shame.
Grief.
Rage.
I was relieved to be leaving my dumb (formerly favorite place on the planet) elementary school and starting middle school, which I knew would be AWESOME.
BUT WHO WAS THIS PERSON STUCK IN THIS DISGUSTING BODY?
Hungry.
Crampy.
Tired.
Bloated.
Moody.
Ugly.
If you think I am being hard on 13 year old me, just listen to what a boy who shall remain nameless (it was Scott M) said to me at a class picnic at Orchard Lake one day: “What happened to your face? Your eyes look like burnt holes in a blanket.”
PLEASE!
Even my FACE?
I want my flat chest back.
My speed.
Full ownership of my long and strong legs.
The social security of Guaranteed Clean Underpants.
My 13 year old self hated who she’d become.
But she had to blame it on the switch of a softball, because there was no option to switch her body.
But wait.
Was this true?
The real me (the person I had always been for my formerly great entire life) stuck her head back into the mix and reminded this imposter me of something (and someone) important:
Renée.
A few years earlier, my friend Susan had invited me to the Virginia Slims Tennis Tournament. (Or was it the US Open?) I was excited, even though I wasn’t a smoker. It was good to be Susan’s friend. Not just because she always had delicious after school snacks at her house (and would get her own adorable car named Otis at 16), but because she got VIP tickets to lots of sports things because her dad was once on the cover of Sports Illustrated and her mom was a really good tennis player (who also made delicious cookies).
And this year’s tournament was extra exciting (ask anyone) because there was a new player competing named Renée Richards.
Before asking anyone, I had no idea why this was so exciting. But after asking, I became obsessed. My parents and the News told me that this Renée Richards used to be one Dr. Richard Raskin. And while my parents (and the News) didn’t do a very good job of answering my questions, they did succeed in making me think of a million more.
I couldn’t wait for the Virginia Slims (or the US Open)!
Because we had VIP tickets that granted us access to the secret halls and locker rooms of Cobo Hall, I was able to morph into a spy (without telling Susan - I still looked exactly the same as the regular me) and follow Renée Richards around behind the scenes. I knew I needed to get to the bottom of things, even (and especially) if I had no idea what those things might be.
Still in my Real Body as my Real Self (remember - I was not yet 13), I was mesmerized:
What?!
You can become a boy?
How?
Does it hurt?
What will happen in 10 years?
Who gets to pick out your new name?
What if you like your old one?
Will life still be normal?
Will your parents still love you?
Can you still live at home?
(Even if your parents don’t still love you?)
Can you still get married when you grow up?
What if you want your old body back?
Also……..
What about………………….
Can you still have a baby?
And …………
What if you hate who you are right now but……..
This line of internal questioning made me so uncomfortable that I had to turn my focus back to Renée and Richard:
Who is she?
Who was he?
Where are the parents?
Are they sad?
What is an ophthalmologist?
Is it fair that she gets to play even though she might be stronger than the other lady players?
What about her opponent? Is she sad? Mad? Scared? Ready?
Does Renée have kids?
Did Richard?
Does she still get to be a doctor?
What about her old patients?
What about their kid? (Through my spying, I had learned that Renée had a son from when she was Richard, so “their” - as used here - indicates the plural possessive, which, of course, led me to……What about the kid’s mom? Is she mad? Sad? Confused? Ok?)
And what does this kid call Renée?
With this many questions (combined with my VIP ticket), I had no choice but to miss several matches that Susan really wanted to see so that I could continue to follow Renée around and get some answers. I was good at my job - Renée never noticed I was following her and Susan never noticed I was missing. (Susan’s parents were busy with other important people, but did give us money to buy hot dogs and lemonade whenever we got hungry or thirsty.)
But then I got greedy and wanted more (spying only - I’d had plenty to eat and drink).
In the same half hour that Susan noticed I was missing, Renée noticed that I was following her on the way back to the locker room. She cleverly slowed her pace as I trailed her, waited until I was almost directly behind her, then spun on her tennis shoe’d heel, bent down and said, “Hello, Young Lady. Is everything alright? Can I help you with something? Are you supposed to be here? Do your parents know where you are?”
What.
Was.
Happening.
?!
Why was Renée Richards just asking me regular questions, like a regular grown up?
I was the one with the questions!
Was she going to tell on me for being in the Players Only Hall?
Would I get in trouble?
I liked her dress!
Was it scarier being in the wrong body or getting in the right one?
Did she play her match yet?
She is nice!
Can I still have more hot dogs?
I hope she wins!
I scrambled back to my seat, and found Susan with her parents watching two matches I remember nothing about except for the thwack of the rackets hitting the balls and the back of the man’s head in front of me, not caring for a moment that he was blocking almost my entire view.
There was so much to ponder about Renée:
Her height. (Was she always so tall?)
Her voice. (Was she trying to make it sound low? Or high?)
Her hair. (Did she change her part to the middle on purpose?)
Her headband. (Was she trying to cover her part if it was an accident? Was her hair real? It looked real....)
Her hands. (Was she sad that they still looked like man hands?)
Her eyebrows. (Who taught her to pluck them like that?)
Her smell. (She smelled nice, even though she looked sort of sweaty.)
Her earrings. (I thought we weren’t supposed to wear jewelry when we played sports?)
Her body. (Did she like it? Did she like wearing a bra? How many did she have?)
Her son. (I hope people aren’t making fun of him.)
And I didn’t even get to ask the two most important questions of all:
How did you know?
Are you happy?
I was sad that we didn’t get to actually watch Renée’s match, but heard on the News later that she won.
She beat a 16 year old girl from a rival hometown high school named Nicole.
This made me feel (and think) a thousand new things, (as if I had anymore room to host them):
Was Nicole sad?
Were her parents mad?
Was it fair?
Who got to decide if it was fair?
What would Nicole’s friends say to her at school the next day?
(Did she have to go to school the next day?)
Did she get to actually talk to Renée and ask her any questions after the match?
What were the questions?
(What were the answers?!)
Did Renée feel weird about playing (and beating) a 16 year old girl?
Is it fun being 16?
Was it scary playing tennis in front of all those people?
Does Nicole have a boyfriend?
Did he get VIP tickets?
What did he think of the game?
Did he bring her flowers or candy or a necklace?
What does he look like?
I never got to ask Renée (or Nicole) any of my questions. (I obviously had several follow up questions for my parents, but they were sick of talking about it and more focused on their new divorce.)
Luckily, the News did a slightly better job (than my parents) explaining things after the match and printed this:
Youngster, 16, in Debut
Bows to Renee Richards
DETROIT, Feb.21 (AP)—Nicole Loren-
zetti, a 16-year-old hometown favorite,
was beaten by Renee Richards, 6-1, 6-2,
as a $100,000 women’s professional ten-
nis tournament opened at Cobo Arena
today. There was a packed house, includ-
ing many of Miss Lorenzetti’s Lahser
High School classmates.
It was the youngster’s tour debut. She
said she wasn’t bothered at having drawn
the controversial Dr. Richards, 43.
“She earned her way to this spot and
she’s had to take an awful lot,” Miss
Lorenzetti said. “I don’t play the person
on the other side of the net, I just play
the ball.”
WOW!
Maybe I should have followed Nicole around!
Maybe it’s not too late to switch high schools (or parents) and go to the one that made Nicole so smart!
Maybe Renée will share the money with Nicole because this is so confusing and because Nicole is so nice! (Plus eye doctors make a lot of money!)
Does Nicole still want to play tennis even though she lost?
Does she like being a girl?
(Is it better now that she isn’t 13 anymore?)
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Maybe I will find Nicole (or Renée) now, as I find myself (at a mostly pretty happy 55, if you don’t factor in my sleep difficulties, world worry or sporadic temper tantrums), still asking all of these questions (and more) in 2023.
Here they are:
If I had been given the option to switch my body at 13, would I have taken it?
…Before I got to 19, when I started to see and feel and appreciate my female strength/s again?
…Before I was able to sign a new lease on my former face and long legs and still capable arms?
…Before I remembered how much I loved being all kinds of physical and - still - couldn’t wait to have a baby?
And….
What about the girls who weren’t sure if they wanted to have a baby?
Would that make their decision easier? Or harder?
What about our girls today?
Who will tell them everything so that they know what is coming, and what will/might/could come after that? And after that?
…That this phase sucks shit balls?
…That it is ok to grieve who you were (shortstop, clean up batter, accidental long jumper extraordinaire, nice daughter and, sometimes, sister) while moving toward who you will become? (And that it’s always a WIP and RIP situation no matter who you are.)
…That there might be a bright horizon if you keep looking but that the storms never retreat completely?
…That these storms will come back full force at full throttle without warning when you are in your late 40s or early 50s and shape shift you yet again? (Same WIP/RIP rules apply.)
...That 13 sucks for everyone but....
...That. Who. You. Are. Is. (Probably or Possibly or Definitely) Amazing?
Do our girls know all of these things? (Not to mention all of the other things that we have not even thought to tell them?)
Until I find Nicole or Renée and get more answers, I will steal from Nicole’s perfect line:
It will never be easy, so play your own ball.
We (all of us) just have to make sure that everyone has equal access to good coaches, shared court time and comparable equipment. We need to make sure that changes are explained before they happen (I’m talking to you, big soft ball). And then we need to hope (and demand) that parents and doctors and educators and mentors (and grown ups who care) can and will help our kids find their way and arrive at their informed destination/s safely.
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Ps/Just a Few More Things:
• I never thanked Susan or her parents for that day (and for all those delicious snacks and cookies over the years) properly - THANK YOU!
• I only told you (most of) Scott M’s name because someone told me later at the picnic (it was Karen) that he liked me and had just found out (also Karen) that I only liked him as a friend, so he might have been a little bit mad at me but we stayed friends anyway. (This remained true even after his - and Rob’s - mom cut me from the cheerleading squad later that year because I couldn’t do a cartwheel or the splits.)
• I very sadly stopped playing softball in 9th grade when I didn’t make the team (because of a boy I skipped most of tryouts for - not because I wasn’t - once again - very, very! - good). Luckily, I had started playing volleyball when I didn’t make cheerleading so I was able to make varsity volleyball (as a sophomore!) before quitting volleyball altogether in college because I refused to wear the unfortunate spanks that would replace the normal shorts we got to wear in high school.
• I am still pretty good at tennis and really good at paddle tennis (not to mention a 2001 SONY Pictures Entertainment Ping Pong Champion) but might have to switch to pickle ball because my knees are tired and I’m a little bit pudgy again. (Menopause will have to be tackled in a separate essay.) If pickle doesn’t work out I’ll revisit recreational only swimming.
And, no matter what, I will keep walking and spying and asking questions, because this life shit is serious business - no matter who you are or what body you (get to) live in.