Rising Below Expectations

BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! My alarm clock was set for 4:45 A.M. I turned over in bed, slapped at
the blasted thing, and rubbed at my eyes groggily. Why the heck was I up so early again? As I was trying
to remember, I turned in bed and looked out of the window and was instantly reminded. Half of the
window was blocked by a pure white slab of snow. I sat up in bed and looked down at the street.
Everything was white, the grass, the street, the cars, the mailboxes, the trees, and even the heads of the
people already outside shoveling.

I got out of bed and went into the bathroom. I squeezed some Colgate onto my toothbrush and
scrubbed at my teeth in a hurry. I was about to grab a towel and go take a shower, but then I stopped
and thought, I could just take one after I got back inside. So, instead of heading back into the bathroom, I
stepped into my closet and took out two sweat pants, a long sleeve shirt, a sweat shirt, two pairs of
socks, a beanie, and my thick black jacket. Donning my defense against the weather, I crept down the
stairs. As I sneaked into the kitchen to get to the garage, I knocked over a cereal box. Wincing at the
sound, I froze, glancing at the door to the master bedroom. I heard my dad’s thunderous snoring, and
was reassured that they had not woken up.

The night before, as my dad and I sat in the living room watching the news, it was brought to our
attention that there was going to be a huge blizzard that night and early the next morning. I saw that
school was closed for the day, and I knew that dad wouldn’t be able to get to work because it looked like
there was going to be fourteen inches of snow! My dad and I exchanged a glance that said, “Great, now
we he have to shovel all day tomorrow. I remembered back to something I saw on the news a long time
ago. Shoveling snow was the number one cause of heart attacks in males aged fifty or older. So, I knew
that I couldn’t let dad do any of the work. However, I also hatched a little scheme to impress him. That’s
why I woke up early the next morning, so I could go outside and shovel the snow off of our driveway
before my parents even woke up.

That’s why I gave that cereal box the death glare as it fell on the kitchen counter. It almost
ruined my whole plot! I crept into the small laundry room that separated the kitchen from the garage. I
shut the door softly behind me and walked into the garage. Putting on my snow boots, I looked at the
garage door. How was I supposed to get it open without my parents hearing me? I turned to look
around. In the back of the garage was a door that led outside. It was blocked by boxes upon boxes of
random junk because we never used it. I made my way over to the door and started moving the boxes
as silently as I could. The last box to pick up was filled with my old baseball stuff: my old mitt, a few
raggedy baseballs, a couple bats, a few trophies, and even my dad’s old black mitt. I sat down on a stool
and picked up one of the bats.

My mind raced back twelve years to when I was just six years old. We were at the park, and it
was the most beautiful day in the world. The sun was high in the sky, the grass was freshly mown and
even over the whole expanse, and there was a slight breeze that swayed the trees around us. I stood in
the middle of an open field with a huge batting helmet on my head and an aluminum bat in my hands.
My dad was kneeling around ten or fifteen feet away from me with a few baseballs on the ground next
to him. He picked one up and looked at me and said, “Here it comes!” He threw the ball to me
underhand so that I would have an easy time with it. I swung at it as hard as I could, hard enough to
almost fall down, but I missed and the ball rolled past my ankles and hit the bottom of a tree trunk. I
fixed my helmet and looked at my dad that just smiled and said, “That’s okay, son. Just try again.”

Four years later, I stood on my first batter’s box at my very first little league baseball game. My
helmet, still too big for my head, cast a shadow on my eyes. The pitcher, the coach of the other team of
course, pulled his arm back and let loose a moderately fast ball. I locked in on it, gritted my teeth, and
swung. Metal collided with rubber and the ball soared over the heads of the outfielders and over the
fence. It was my first home run. The mini-crowd of parents and family friends cheered and I looked into
the crowd for one special face. I found it, my father’s face. He was grinning broadly and cheering louder
than everyone.

Two years later, when I was twelve, I stood on my first pitcher’s mound. My schoolmates and
fellow teammates stood behind me, waiting for the inevitable fly. I peered to the side and saw my dad
standing on the sidelines, watching. He gave me a thumbs-up. I looked at the batter’s box. The thirteen
year old, red shirted, black helmeted bulk of a boy standing there was much too far away from the plate.
He already had two strikes. This was the last inning, and he was the last out. If he struck out, then we
would win. If he got a hit off, then the runner on third base would have a chance to tie it up. I put my
hands behind my back and fashioned my right hand around the ball. As I took a firm grip, I glanced up at
the sky, my pitcher’s signature. Then, I let loose a wild curve ball. It took the batter by surprise, and he
swung too early. The ball whizzed past him and hit the catcher’s glove. The umpire signaled him out and
my team was cheering loudly. They all came up to me and picked me up and carried me around the
field. I looked over to where my dad was standing, but he wasn’t there. Afterwards, I found him in the
car, talking to one of his clients on the phone. When he hung up, I told him about the game and he
submissively congratulated me and was silent.

I remember nights when I would lay awake thinking of ways to impress him. I could still do the
little things, I told myself, the little things that could build up. For a while, it seemed to work. However,
year after year, my dad became less and less my dad and more and more my father.

I dropped the bat back into the box and moved it out of the way. Turning, I plucked the shovel
off of the rack of different tools. I opened the door quietly and left the garage. As soon as I took my first
step outside, I wished I hadn’t. The cold morning wind whipped at my face. Luckily, this portion of the
ground was underneath an overhanging ceiling of the garage, or else I’d have been knee deep in snow
already. I trudged over to the front of the house and took a look at the driveway, a solid two and a half
foot tall slab of ice and snow waiting to be moved. I sighed heavily and began my work. It was a slow
start, trying to figure out where to throw the snow and in what direction to shovel. The wind kept
blowing the snow back in my face every now and then. However, after the first half and hour, the next
one went by quickly. An hour and a half in, I had cleared half of the driveway. That’s when my father
came outside.

He was wearing a huge black jacket and a black hat. He looked like one of those security guards
outside of arctic military bases in the Bond movies. He stepped out of the door and started walking over
to me. The snow and ice crunched under his feet, the same snow and ice that caused me to slip and
almost fall several times. He walked over to where I was standing. This was it, the moment I had been
waiting for…the smile and the pat on the back.

It was all too good to be true. He took one look around at the mounds of snow to the right of
the driveway, my mounds of snow. My father took the shovel from my hands and said, “You’re throwing
the snow in the wrong direction, son.”