I am eleven and the sun is setting as I toss my raggedy old tennis ball at the side of the garage. I think.

I think about the roar of the crowd. I think about the smell of the grass. I think about playing baseball with a real baseball and having someone to catch and throw the ball back to me instead of using the side of a beat up garage. I think how great it would be to play for the Atlanta Braves. I think about all the reasons that I will forever be tomboy. I think of all the stereotypes there are for dykes. I think how much I hate stereotypes. I think of how I want nothing more than to be different. I think, how terrible it is to fit in and fill the shoes that have been set out for you by someone else. I think it’s better to be a straight tomboy than a gay stereotype. And then I think, damn, Michelle Rodríguez is hot.

I am eleven and the sun is setting as my raggedy old tennis ball bounces back into my crumbling black baseball glove. I think, and this is the problem.

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