single-handed

Matt Sesow has just one arm. The other one he lost when he was eight.
In a plane crash. He wasn't on the plane. He was in a corn field in Lincoln, Nebraska. Playing. Out of nowhere came a plane. And part of it crashed into his left arm. He lost it. And no one has found it since.

As if such an event isn't enough for the guy, what made matters worse was the fact that the plane picked his left arm to crash into. Somehow it overlooked the right arm and plowed straight into the left. And up until the time he was eight, playing in that corn field,Matt was known to be left-handed.

I never even noticed. At least not right away. Each day he'd smile his way past my cubicle, stopping briefly with a happy hello. He'd spiral his way up the staircase and take his spot seated above my head in the Q&A loft.

He's just the nicest!

That's what we share in common. Matt and me. I don't know about the "nicest" part - but that we're both left-handed. What's a little different now, is that I still am. Matt's not. After Matt lost his arm he had to learn to be right-handed. I can imagine it all must have been so tough. You can see it in his paintings.

Which is why went came went to the art gallery in the first place.
To see Matt Sesow's paintings.

Matt didn't learn to paint to prove to the world that he could work that right arm. Oh no, he picked up painting for more noble reasons. He wanted to meet a girl. The soon to be then, Missus Sesow saw herself to be an artist (<--­­­ yeah, try saying that 5 times fast!). So back then, Matt signed up for class. And now his work was in a gallery. And so were we - Lucas, Whisk Boy, and me. His work really is impressive. It's all very beautiful and sad, funny and fascinating, silly and scary….there's no reason for me to try to put words to it all, when his painting seem to speak to it all quite clearly. If you don't believe me, stop reading my stupid story and see for yourself: http://www.sesow.com.

Later after the opening, Lucas and I met up with Tara & Co(workers). at a bar.

"We need to talk to you about something," Tara started. "It's about how you spend you free time."

"Word on the street is that you played ball in high school," one co-worker continued.

"Uh…JUNIOR high school?" I told him. "That was SIXTEEN years ago."

"Perfect! You're way ahead of a lot of the girls," he said. "I'm sure you could teach them a thing or two."

"Like how to pick daisy's behind first base in right field? I don't think so," I answered. "I can hit and I can run pretty well, but ask anyone at Alconbury High School, I cannot catch worth crap. Besides that, I don't have a mitt."

I should have known that was a too easy excuse. Someone's father coached a high school baseball team. Left-hander, right-hander, it didn't matter. He was sure he could hook me up.

So I decided to further explain my situation.

"I catch and throw with the same arm," I told them embarassed.

I am the only left-hander in my family. In fact, the only other left-hander we know about was my great, great uncle Chet and he died ten years ago. So as far as we know, I'm the only one left (literally!).

When we were way young, my brothers used to let me play ball with them, but I was never allowed to pitch, only catch. I'd catch with their right-hander mitts. I got pretty good at catching, but no one seemed to care that my awkward return throw rarely traveled further than a few feet past my feet. They at least met up to my brothers' expectations.

"She's a girl," Glenn would explain. "She's supposed to throw like a girl!"

Later in the 8th grade, I joined the softball team. Not because I was good, or I liked it, or anything of the sort. I did it because of a boy.

Matt Liston was our baseball team's star player and it was important to him that his girlfriend supported his interests. He was very sweet that, Mister Liston, and after his game he would come over to the girl's diamond, all sweaty and dirty, sit on the bleachers, cheer on the team…and watch me pick daisies. Try as I might, I could not convince him to teach me how to spit chewing tobacco….
He was concerned with my catching situation, and tried to help me recondition. He took time after our practices to catch and throw with me a little more. He couldn't decide which was more likely - which arm had a better chance at getting better at whatever.

It really didn't seem to matter though, my left arm just seemed to want to do it all.

So that's when we decided we would let it do just that.

"Catch the ball with your left hand," he told me. "And then drop your mitt and throw it back with your left hand as well."

It wasn't the best solution – it was pretty awkward and clumsy, but by the end of the season, it at least afforded me the privilege of occasionally subbing for an injured left or center fielder. He was so proud of my progress...

Anyway, flashback to the bar….

While my mind gets busy floating down memory lane, Tara & Co. are still busy laughing at my tossing talents and speculating over the impact my handicap might have on the team.

That's when I realized how silly I sounded.

We had just left a gallery where a guy named Matt painted everything with one arm. He had lived over twenty years doing things single-handedly, and I was sniffling over my stupid, softball throwing uni-arm.

"When's practice?" I asked.

This Tuesday, they told me.

I think I'm supposed to be there.

On the drive home I realized, I had just been conned into signing on for the softball season. Tuesdays and Thursdays all summer long…damn. Driving in this morning I realized, I had just been conned into signing on for the softball season. Damn, Tuesdays and Thursdays all summer long…
Maybe it will be a rainy season.

Just because one might find beauty in a brush,
doesn't mean that a miracle will happen with a mitt.

After all, we're talking athletics here, not art.
And in this situation, I think Matt might have the upper hand.