F
or me, reading someone else’s
words, or formulating thoughts
in my own mind, was never
enough; I always had to write it down on
paper. Writing my own stories made the
simple descriptions come alive, placing
me in a different world of my own
choosing. Microsoft Word became my
escape hatch from the doldrums of my
humdrum life in suburban New Jersey.
Finding my own life to be too boring,
I put myself in the place of people I
wanted to be, even for a day. Using
various movies and television shows as
inspiration, I created new worlds filled
with fascinating characters, either by
reaching back into the past or extending
into the future. I dovetailed my desire
to write with my budding interest in
history, attempting to see what life
was like in a different era by recreating
it on paper. I would base stories off of
Sherlock Holmes in order to understand
life in Victorian England. I would write
a murder mystery based off real events
in 1940s Los Angeles to recreate the Noir
Era. I would put myself in the shoes of an
American soldier in Afghanistan (mixed
with some futuristic Frankenstein-like
technology) to try and see the conflict
that has been raging nearly all my life.
And, by putting myself in a different
place, I tried to discover the underlying
emotions in things I did not experience
much in everyday life: grief, tragedy,
loss.
Despite
my
escapist
desires,
however, the one story that sticks out in
my mind actually became a reflection
of my own life, allowing me to connect
more deeply with the experiences I had
in this world.
One day, my teacher gave us an
assignment to write a story from the
perspective of an inanimate object. I
ended up writing from the perspective
of a baseball, since baseball was my
favorite sport growing up. I played
baseball from kindergarten up until
seventh grade. Some of my fondest and
earliest memories recount me posing in
a high school gym with my bat in hand
and crisp yellow tee-ball uniform on. My
dad and I bonded in our shared devotion
to the New York Mets, even though
they constantly disappointed us with
stunning collapses or outright bad play.
We would watch every game, whether
they were in the cellar or on their way
to the World Series. The minute spring
came, my dad and I would try out my
new glove in the backyard, prepping
for my own season. Even though I quit
playing in eighth grade (and I often
regret that I didn’t put enough effort
towards the game), it still holds a special
place in my heart. Ironically, a baseball
was the perfect vehicle to express
feelings of tragedy and loss, since I was
most familiar with that object, and it
held meaning far beyond the red laces
for my own childhood.
Though a baseball is just any old
object, I tried to inject as much feeling
as I could into its own thoughts. I
recounted the trepidation the baseball
had sitting in a bin with hundreds of
other similar looking baseballs, worried
that no one would ever buy it. I recalled
how nervousness filled the entirety of its
sphere as the new owner held it, unsure
whether he would treat him better than
the salespeople. I described how panic
consumed it as it wondered whether it
would be relegated to another dustbin.
In the bin, it was just another object,
faceless and meaningless. In a kid’s
baseball glove, it brought joy to the boy’s
face, nurturing his love of the game. The
boy would recognize and appreciate it,
understanding how much joy it brought
to him. These feelings were my way of
expressing my own trepidation about
growing up. I was painfully shy and
reserved in social interaction, loathe to
reveal any personal reservations I had
about myself. My constant worry about
meaning something to another person,
to not just be another soul walking
the earth, were encapsulated in this
baseball.
Though seemingly a minor object,
this one baseball alone had significant
events in its existence, which I tried to
convey in the grandest terms possible.
It faced a winding journey from the
bottom of a sporting goods store bin,
to a boy’s shelf in his room, to the
dustbin many years later. It faced many
threats to its survival, from its spot
in the bottom in the bin, to the boy
growing up and cleaning out his room
of childhood objects. However, the
baseball withstood it all. Why?
Well, it wasn’t just any baseball. It
was the last object the father got for his
son before he died in the Twin Towers
on 9/11. (Admittedly, I got some of the
ideas from the trailer for “Extremely
Loud and Incredibly Close,” with the
key switched out for a baseball.)
Looking back, this story presented a
tragic version of what-could-have-been
for my own life. My own father was in
New York City on 9/11, sitting on the
train as he watched the towers burn.
He, somehow, made it on the last train
back to New Jersey, even after he took
the time to go to Virgin Records for
a new Bob Dylan CD (which earned a
stern reprimand from my mother). This
story was my way of being thankful
for having my father be there all those
years, nurturing my love for baseball.
Instead of having a baseball stand in for
my father, he was always there, ready to
catch my throws. I never had to throw
pop ups to myself, or always run after
the ball; my dad was there to do it for
me. Especially since there were not
many kids in my neighborhood, having
my father was a lifesaver. Just saying
“thank you” to my dad for being there
would have never been adequate; writing
allowed me to express that gratitude. By
writing from the perspective of another
boy who had the same childhood in
nearly every way save one, I was able
to fully appreciate the impact my own
father had on my development, and why
baseball is such an important facet of
my own character.
Wednesday, January 16, 2019 // The Statement
7B
Wednesday, September 11, 2019 // The Statement
7B
BY ALEXANDER COTIGNOLA, STATEMENT COLUMNIST
Finding emotion at the stroke of a pen
ILLUSTRATION BY SHERRY CHEN