April in southern California was always a beautiful month, and always a great time to start the season. Not too hot, not too humid, and no May gray or June gloom.

As Maria stood in the locker room admiring her new compression shorts, she wondered how ballplayers managed to endure the cold April games that were characteristic in the Plain states and the Midwest.

Are we talking softball or baseball, her mind wandered? Instantly her brain responded. Same old same old — softball for girls, baseball for boys. Damn it. It was always the same answer. Women had and continued to break so many barriers professionally and personally, except when it came to competing in professional sports with men. I get it, she thought. There are anatomical differences that enable each gender to perform differently in various sports. But why can’t I play in the majors?

Maria was, without a doubt, the best of the best. As a junior in college, she had hit .376 with 28 home runs, and nobody could turn two like Maria. And while the other girls on her team were out partying or hanging with guys, Maria quietly spent endless hours in the batting cages hitting baseballs.

This being her last season of her college career, Maria wanted everything to be perfect. She dressed, tied back her ponytail, and put on her eye black to reduce the sun glare. Maria liked what she saw in the mirror. She was all muscle but could run like the wind.

The first exhibition game of the season turned out to be disappointing. The team lost the opener 8 to 4, and Maria only managed to scrounge out a bloop single. What’s wrong with me? Maria asked herself in the car after the game. She knew what was wrong. Her softball career would most likely be over at the end of the season. Sure, she was already receiving offers from professional softball teams, but Maria didn’t think she could turn down the offers she was also getting for a full ride for graduate school.

If I could only get one chance, just one chance to try out in Single A ball just to prove myself. If I can’t cut it, at least I know that I didn’t make it due to performance and not because I don’t wear a jock strap.

She parked her car, grabbed her gear, and headed to the batting cages. It felt good knowing that she could solidly hit an 80 mile per hour baseball. But to what end? Sometimes it felt like dating a married man. Where can this relationship possibly go? Why is the national pastime beyond my reach?

Before Maria realized, she had been in the batting cage for over an hour. Sweaty and sore, she failed to notice the elderly gentleman who had been watching her swing the bat. Just as Maria was taking her final swings, the man vanished from sight.