Functions of Behaviour

He knows he can’t play very well. That does not stop him. He has a passion for all things baseball. The cool breezes on the hot days, the patient waiting for short bursts of excitement. He loves the smells of grass and sweat and dirt and leather. He dreams of the sounds of fists hitting leather gloves, of balls smacking against wooden bats, of the murmur of voices pre-pitch and the fervor of shouts post hit.

He even loves the number crunching and pontificating. He will not discover SABRmetrics until the wider world does; yet, he tries in his own small way to emulate something he doesn’t know existed. He averages career numbers, tries to compare eras, uses a chart to figure out the average incline and decline of a career. How would some of them stack up if they hadn’t missed time because of war or injury? He carefully writes notes in the margins of his baseball encyclopedia, the giant tome with the bible like tissue paper pages, allowing for enough room to print the stats of every player, ever.

He hears a rumour of baseball that he can play early in the new year. He goes to the meeting at the elementary school, alone. Of course, alone. He hears the sales pitch, and for a measly sum of 100 dollars he too can be a part of baseball.

It is easy to convince his parents. The practices are on Wednesday and Thursday nights. The games early on Saturdays; well, early for his parents, at any rate. They consider a hundred bucks a small price to pay for him to be out of their hair. Plus, he’s a stocky kid who eats too much. Maybe that is the price we pay for allowing children so much control over when and what they eat? The exercise will do him well, and they never considered the humiliation, not then, and not later. He was never allowed to think of himself as different, and they didn’t seem to notice that he was.

The wages of fun paid, he waits forever for spring to come. While he follows the Blue Jays and their exploits, this was when they were infinitely competitive and had a shot at a pennant, he is mostly waiting for his time to come. He dreams of finally being good at something. He dreams of being part of a group, accepted, one of the boys.

He steals a glove from the large Canadian Tire store a few subway stops away from his home, and he works it in. He has no friends, but that’s ok, he pals around with a weird kid who also likes baseball, just so he can play catch. The friendship will not last, the weird kid is probably a creeper, and likely gay. That doesn’t bother him until the day he catches the kid masturbating behind him on the couch as the boy is playing Mike Tyson’s Punch Out. He takes the game, and a few choice baseball cards as payment for not telling anyone what happened. True to his word, he never tells, until now.

These were the kinds of things he had to do to be a part of Baseball. The dues he would willingly pay again and again to be a part of something, to belong, and the be doing what he loved.

The boy is excited to put on his uniform; a rarity for him in regards to dressing. Though he dislikes the idea of conformity, he longs to belong, to be a part of something, even if it is just for a few days a week. A uniform said you belong. Looking like everyone else was a small price to pay. The costs of baseball mount for him, but he doesn’t care.

The time has come for his first practice. He is nervous and trembling with anticipation. He is not disappointed when his parents refuse to come, or even to take him to the practice. The transit system is reliable and it was only a first practice.

He sneaks on to the Subway by running through the bus entrance when nobody is looking. He has run out of tickets, likely because he traded them for something more interesting to him. There’s always a way on to the buses, so why sweat it, and why hold on to a currency that meant more to someone else, when they had something you wanted?

He shows up at the field in his green uniform. His gold stirrups clean for the only time. He is disappointed in the fact he is on the Local Business sponsor Athletics team. He wanted to be a Blue Jay, and he hated the team from Oakland; however, he was not given a choice. He is wearing his green and gold cap pulled low, with a tremendous crease in the bill. He had worked on that some too. He wanted to have a rounded bill that encircled his face, but the cheap plastic wire in the brim had split in the middle under his ministrations. No worries, it was a minor flaw.

He runs when he is told to run. There is a lot of running. While not the fastest, he isn’t the slowest either. This is good. He might get to play a bit.

He tells the coach third base. The coach tells him outfield. This is the boy’s first time playing, and the coach has his favourites from last year to consider. Ok, the boy is up to a challenge.

The boy cannot catch fly balls. He has no idea where they are going. The boy has no depth perception. He is ok with catching stuff straight at him. It is a defensive gesture, and it works. The arcing flying things are a mystery to him though. He tries. He practices. He doesn’t get any better. The flaw isn’t about skill. It is about being blind in one eye and having a spatial awareness problem. He doesn’t really know this.

He tries to get his dad to help him. The dad agrees to throw balls for him. He only does it once. The boy isn’t sure why the dad can’t stand to do it.

Batting practice is next. As he goes to the plate for the first time, he examines the bleachers for something he knows is not there. He sees a few parent milling about, shifting from cheek to cheek, chatting with each other, pointing at their offspring with a smile.

He swings wildly at the pitches he sees, and jumps out of the way of the ones he doesn’t. He is afraid to get hit by the ball. He’s never been hit before by a baseball and doesn’t know how it feels.

This is how he plays baseball for the rest of the summer. Afraid an alone in the field. His teammates mock him, the coaches try to hide him on the bench. He paid his money like everyone else, so they can’t ignore him entirely.

His stats are nonexistent. He foul tips two maybe three balls all season and is walked a few times. He is hit several times as well. He no longer fears being hit by a baseball after the first. It doesn’t hurt him that much. He steals a base and scores a run or two.

Every game he hops the turnstile as they say, and watches the stands in a vain hope that his parents will show. They never do.

All of this weighs on him as he prepares for the quarter finals of the season. His team is better than average, and there are hopes of making the finals.

He begs the coach to put him at third base in the middle of a close game. The coach relents, maybe he has dreams of one of those sports movie moments where the shitty player does something cool to win the game, and the respect of everyone.

A ball whizzes past the boy’s head, unseen, but heard, and even felt, as the jet wash ruffles his hair. A run scores and he is moved to the outfield.

He comes to the plate with runners on base. He wants to be the hero, he has seen the movies too. He swings and misses at the first three pitches. He is devastated as he walks back to the bench.

On his way someone else’s mother starts to make fun of him. She calls out something nasty about the coach benching him. The boy looks at her and yells, “Fuck you, bitch!” He half heatedly tosses the bat at her. The cage stops it from hitting anything and the bat crashes to the ground with a metallic clink.

The woman makes a comment about his attitude being poor.

He drops a fly ball in the field later, and his team loses the game.

Once again, he sneaks on to the subway, slinks home and goes to his room.

A few weeks later there is a call on the phone. It is his coach. The coach does not speak to the boy’s parents. He can’t do that. He tells the boy that the team banquet is in a few days. He tells the boy he must say these things as it is his duty; but, that he does not want the boy to come. No one wnats the boy to come. They don’t want him there because he is the one who lost them everything. He is a loser and they do not want to remember the season that way.

That is when the boy feels the dream in him expire.

As a man, I sit here writing this tale, wondering why.

Why write it?

Why did people do the things they did?

What was the function of the behaviours?

There are very few reasons people do what they do. Does it feel good? Does it help them avoid feeling bad? Does it get them a thing they want? Does it get them attention?

That last one is the likely reason for this whole writing thing. We all want to be seen, and I am no different. I want to be seen by you, so I do what I do. I dread that it is as simple as all that. I dread that I am looking for attention from people, the internet equivalent of hey, look at me! Over here!

If it makes you feel any better, I am not looking for your pity. While this tale is sad, even to me, it is not told for that reason.

I wonder if this is an attempt to belong. I am still looking for that. Always from the outside I look and see the people, and always a bemoan my inability to tell whether or not I belong. Or at least, at times, I am still that baseball loving boy, dreaming of a time when I can matter.

I know I over analyse everything I do, but I am wondering, do you?

Why do you do what you do?