The Princess
by Alina Schnake-Mahl
I am a girl who spent nine months in a womb with a boy named Gabe. When we were younger, I wanted to be exactly like him. His friends were my friends. He wore baggy pants, so I followed suit. He loved sports; I became a giant sports fan. He decided to play baseball, so naturally I played too.
Gabe and I liked to race everywhere: down the street, to the car, across fields. Unfortunately, my competitive nature occasionally took precedence over my honesty.
“Gabey, lets race to the pole over there.”
“Ok, ready…set.. go!”
I would fall behind, “Ow ow ow, I just sprained my ankle,” or, “You cheated, you left before you said go.” Once or twice I took the violent approach and tried to cut him off when he started gaining on me. I rarely lost a race, mostly because if I wasn’t in the lead, I would just stop running.
Baseball became our joint focus. Together, we could compete against the world. We began the sport in a summer league, wearing bright orange jerseys with the team name, Cornucopia, emblazoned on the front. Our team worked our way to the playoffs, but I wasn’t able to play in the game. I got a calf injury, and every time I took a step it felt like I was being jabbed by sharp pieces of glass.
The coaches couldn’t seem to figure out my nickname, Nini. When we were toddlers, my brother couldn’t say Alina, so he came up with Nini, though I don’t see the connection between the sounds of the two names. Coaches insisted upon calling me Mimi, a mistake I found extremely annoying. This would be the first of many times in my baseball career that a coach would call me by the wrong name.
The next year my parents enrolled me in ABGSL, or Albany Berkeley Girls Softball League, while my brother continued the summer team. My parents assumed a girl should play with other girls; I hated it. We wore bright pink tee shirts printed with cats cheerfully prancing across the fronts. I discerned that girls had no idea how to play. One girl ran from home plate across the pitchers mound and straight to second base, no first. The coaches likewise demonstrated a lack of knowledge for the sport; the coaches had a similar problem. My mother was one three assistant coaches. She sits at professional baseball games and knits, cannot throw the ball more than 10 feet, and has no idea what the infield fly rule is, but there she was teaching my fellow teammates and me to play softball. The only truly good experience I had playing softball was when I was quoted in the newspaper. “I like hitting and catching the ball,” Alina Schnake-Mahl of the Black, Brown and Lanier AdvoCATS, told the reporter, “I want to play outfield.”
Single A (Albany little league)
I was done with softball. On to bigger and better things: pitching machines, real jerseys with numbers on the backs, and boys, lots and lots of boys. I was one of 3 girls in the league, the only one on my team. I was in 2nd grade then, and just one of the boys. There was no differentiation between sexes; we were all just little kids. Crushes hadn’t yet developed, and concern about how others perceived us was unknown.
I rejoined by brother on the Blue Jays. Our friend Saul, my brother and I would get dressed hours early, acting out the important plays of the previous game. We loved putting on our light blue jerseys, numbers 1, 2 and 10, our matching belts, hats and socks with the double stripes down the side, our white pants stained with dirt from past slides and mustard from hotdogs devoured after the games, our cleats and our gloves we had slept on for nights with balls tied in them so they had the perfect grip.
Every year there was a parade for Albany Little league and ABGSL. We marched down Solano, through Albany Village and on to the baseball fields. Once there, we’d sit with our teams and rise when our name was called. I’d see my friends who played softball and silently laugh at them, thinking, ha, baseball’s way better.
One game I struck out three times. On the final strike out I slammed my helmet to the dirt allowing it to spiral on the ground until it came to a halt, disdained and dirty. I yanked my hat over my eyes, attempting to hide the gathering tears from the boys.
My Dad tried to cheer me up saying, “Barry Bonds, one of the best players ever, struck out three times today, It happens to everyone.”
“I hate the Giants and it shouldn’t happen to me,” I responded angrily.
Gabe and I rarely fought; when we did it was over something like who got to choose the night’s movie. The arguments were always quickly resolved with little effort. We had few physical fights, and those that happened generally ended with me on the ground curled into a ball laughing hysterically.
Gabe however, enjoyed getting me into trouble with our parents. He would annoy and tease me until my anger became uncontainable and I struck.
Then, “Mommy, Nini hit me.”
Gabe occasionally got desperate and mischievous in his ploys. Once, he ran up to our Mom and showed her deep teeth marks on his arm.
“Mommy,” he said with tears welling up, “Nini bit me.”
“Alina Sophia, why did you bite your brother?”
“I didn’t,” I responded defensively.
It quickly became clear that some foul play was at work. It was Gabe’s word against mine. So my clever mother decided to do some detective work. She instructed each of us to take a piece of paper and bite down. This was pre-braces, a time when I would barely have to dress up to resemble a vampire. Two of my chompers stuck far out of line; they were so extreme that I rarely showed my teeth when I smiled because of embarrassment. The imprint I left on the paper had two distinct teeth marks, while my brother’s arm, did not. Foiled trickster, ha.
Triple A
My brother, 5 other boys and I got to skip double A. Triple A meant players actually pitching, normal Major League Baseball rules except for 6 innings rather than 9 and shorter base paths. Gabe and I were again on the same team, the Twins. Ironic? We were the youngest. Age didn’t matter, but gender started to. I began to notice a lack of girls; I was the only one in Triple A. I also began to notice boys, and got my first crush, a fellow player, Gram Agate. Our team was good, the best in the league, and we advanced to the TOC’s: Tournament of Champions. We lined up along the third base line, hats over hearts, happily mouthing the words to the Star Spangled Banner. They announced our names and numbers, struggling over Schnake-Mahl.
In the bottom of the sixth we were down, and I was up to bat. A teammate was on second base, intent on scoring despite the two outs. The count became 3-2; I had swung at only the first pitch. I was not yet at the point in my game where my decision to swing depending on how the pitch looked as it left the pitchers hand. Before the pitcher started his wind-up I’d decided I wouldn’t swing. Going down looking is better than swinging, and I might get walked. I’d assessed that pitchers at this age rarely threw in the strike zone, so the chances of getting walked were relatively high. A ball, I trotted down to first base. The next batter didn’t have my good fortune and struck out looking. The game was over. We’d lost. I cried.
This year of baseball marked the branching of humor. The boys would cackle with delight, feel their abs tense up and wipe tears from the corners of their eyes at any mention of a bathroom. I, however, simply found such jokes gross.
This isn’t to say I haven’t chuckled at a quality potty joke in my day. The song, Joy to the world, Barney’s dead! We barbequed his head, was oft repeated in my house in earlier years. By fourth grade, however, I no longer found jokes like this funny. I was surrounded by boy humor, and I had no one to laugh with about clapping games and American Girl dolls.
Triple A (again)
The next year, again, Gabe and I were on the same team, the Reds. The boys were beginning to gain mass on me. Before five years old I’d adored dresses, twirly dresses. I wore a wedding veil to preschool so I could play marriage at recess. Then I changed. Pink received a restraining order and getting me to wear a dress was harder than batting 1000 for an entire season. I became a tomboy. I wore baggy pants (Gabe and I had a few matching pairs), a shirt with a sports logo on it and a backwards hat; I played football after school and made girls cry when I mercilessly eliminated them in four square. Gabe and I even liked to go shopping together. A trip to Mary and Joes or Big five was an exciting event. We would pick out clothing and decide to share them.
“Nini, can I wear the shirt on Tuesday and then you wear it on Friday?”
“No, but Gabey, I want to wear it first.”
“Ok Nini, if you really want to.”
My friends staged an intervention.
“Alina, you dress messy. All your clothes are for boys. Stop wearing them.”
Such a comment hurts a third grader’s little ego. I tried to relieve the pain by taking my frustration out on my mom.
“Mommy, you buy me ugly clothes. Go buy me all new clothing.”
“Alina Sophia, your clothes are fine, and don’t use that tone with me.”
“ No, I need new clothes!” I bellowed.
It took some time before I finally admitted the real reason for my anger about clothes. My mom understood, and agreed that we could switch the wardrobe up a bit. Goodbye Target, hello Limited Too. Out went the basketball shorts and giant shirts; in came sparkle tees and bell-bottom jeans.
Along with my change in general attire came feeling self-conscious about how baggy my baseball pants were, and if there were bumps in my ponytail. I wasn’t one of the boys anymore. I wanted to be considered a girl in social situations, but an equal on the field.
Coaches didn’t help me fit in; they treated me differently than they treated the boys.
“Number ten, four and eleven take fly balls. Princess, grounders, ok?”
I was a baseball player, not royalty. Princess was not my only name. During one game the other team didn’t have enough people, so my team kindly offered one of our players. The other coach said he wanted “the girl”. I was honored that he wanted me on his team, but I also imagined punching him with my little fists until he realized that a jersey number was sufficient.
There was a boy named Zack, and he had a crush on me. I found him nice to look at, but I wasn’t ready for a relationship to develop. However, he and Gabe became close friends. One sunny Saturday, after a game, Zack came over. They were chatting happily on the back porch when I decided to join them. The two-person play date became a three person one, and the third wheel was my brother. After an hour my Mom called me into the kitchen.
“Alina, I think you need to let Gabe hang out with Zack.”
“But, he’s my friend too and we were having fun.”
“He’s here for Gabe, not you. Give them some space.”
I realized that it wouldn’t always be Gabe and me. Social expectations demanded that he have guy friends and that my relationship with them couldn’t be the same. No more combined birthday parties at the batting cages.
This second year in Triple A was the first time my brother’s greater skill at the sport displayed itself. He made the All Star team; I patted him on the back, smiled, and congratulated him, while silently seething with jealousy.
Luckily for me, in the second round game, only 9 players could attend. This inconvenience wasn’t discovered until shortly before the starting time and another player was needed in case any one got hurt. Princess to the rescue. I received my shirt with “All Star” shining across the front. Little league rules required that everyone on the roster play at least one half inning, so I was guaranteed at least one at bat.
The day was gray and gloomy, but my expectations were bright as a 200-watt light bulb. I sat on the bench along with the coaches until the fourth inning, excited but nervous. My brother had played every inning at second base and had hit a single in the second. I sat on the hard bench nibbling my glove and fiddling with my hat. I would cheer for Gabe, but all I wanted to do was switch places with him.
In the bottom of the fourth the coach announced, “Alina, you’re hitting for Gabe”
I trudged up to the plate to prove myself. The coaches would decide that I should play the rest of the game, maybe the rest of the All-Star season. I was determined, and warm from my practice swings in the on deck circle. A player stood on first; home plate is ready for you.
“Strike one.” Outside corner.
“Strike two.” Come on Alina.
“Strike three.” A complete whiff.
I toddled back to the dugout, disappointed and embarrassed. I wouldn’t get any more playing time, nor would I join the team for their next game. I did get a trophy. There was an award ceremony; I got to go because of my one miserable at bat. Today, a picture of that team exists online. I kneel in the right hand corner of the bottom row, in a dark blue windbreaker with a bright green collar. My smile shows all my teeth, and I clutch the trophy in both hands. My name is written at the bottom as if I was really a part of the team.
My family and I went to an introduction night for King Middle School. We listened to teachers explain about the school and talk about all the great aspects of it. One teacher eventually got to the subject of sports, my previously drooping eyelids burst apart as I leaned forward to carefully catch every word
I threw my hand into the air excitedly, “Can girls be on the baseball team?”
“Well, there’s a softball team for girls,” replied the teacher.
“I know, but I don’t want to play softball.”
“Well, I don’t know if that’s happened before, but I suppose there’s no rule against it.”
“Yes,” I said, accompanied by my right arm jerking towards my body in a motion of triumph.
Triple A (one more time)
Teams in Albany Little League were chosen in a draft by the coaches. They would take turns, picking players, attempting to create the best possible team. In previous years, Gabe and I had been some of the earliest players to be picked. We were athletic, and watched enough of the Oakland A’s to understand the game better than most kids our age. This year would be different.
My house received a call the night that the lists of the teams were going to be posted. Everyone in the league would go to the Albany Veterans Building, check the list, and meet their new teammates and coaches.
“I’ve got some good and bad news,” said the caller. “Gabe’s made the majors. He’ll be on the Giants. But Alina, she didn’t make the majors. She’ll have to play triple A again.”
I was betrayed and broken. My dream of being the first female major league baseball player was smashed into the upper deck. That night, I stared into the full-length mirror in my bathroom. My puffy, red eyes displaying the pain I felt. For the first time, I questioned if I wanted to continue playing. Was the embarrassment of being one of the oldest players in Triple A worth continuing the sport I loved?
I was ambivalent about going to the first practice, but somehow dragged myself there. I approached the Albany Field, glove in hand, cleats scuffing the ground, the dirt taking the brunt of my anger. My teammates stood in small clusters chatting with one another. Suddenly, I saw a strange form: long black hair covered by a cap, falling to the middle of the back. It was a girl!
Her name was Julia and she’d just switched from softball to baseball. I imagined that she would be the solution for the lack of estrogen in my sports experience. We would giggle about the cute boys and braid each other’s hair.
“Hey, have you listened to the new Spice Girls song?” I asked hopefully.
“Who?” she said as she wiped her runny nose on her shirt sleeve and looked away from me.
A girly girl who happened to play baseball was what I needed; a complete tomboy was what I got. It was true that I no longer was called “the girl”, but the female bonding I craved was still nonexistent.
While I was stuck in Triple A, Gabe was excelling in the majors. I was angry with him the night of the phone call; he’d left me. We had always been a team, the twins, always there for each other, rarely fighting, equal. The equity I’d cherished was gone; he was sprinting forward and I had my feet stuck deep in the mud.
I tried to pitch for the first time. I didn’t have a particularly good arm, but there were some perks to being one of the older players. I was determined to try a new position and prove my skill. If I became a pitcher, maybe I would make majors the next year. I walked to the mound, exchanging the ball between my right hand and glove, fwap. Feet together on the pitching rubber, small step outside with left foot, swivel the right, knee up, release ball and drag right foot forward. I had the form part down, but my accuracy was a bit of an issue. I pitched in one game, beginning in the third inning. I walked the first batter, as well as the second. The next grounded out. The following two batters were walks as well bringing in a run. My pitching career came to an abrupt halt.
Softball (another try)
I finally decided that I was tired of all the boys, and I didn’t want to continue feeling so different and alone. Sure, baseball provided ample opportunity to meet boys, but a 5th graders love life isn’t very eventful. I couldn’t compete any more. The boys had gained muscles that I could never get, and quite frankly didn’t want. I wasn’t strong enough, fast enough, or good enough to make the Majors next year. A fourth year in triple A was not an option.
So, I went back to the disaster sport: softball. Softball was visors, cheering and girls: lots and lots of girls. I played an uneventful season of normal ABGSL, and then joined a traveling summer team. Softball was very different, and not just because of the size of the ball. The ball was thrown in a strange manner; one would first point with the gloved hand and then throw. I also had to adjust to the timing of pitches because the mound is closer and the ball is released underhand. I didn’t adjust; in my summer league I batted .000. I was on base often, but only because of walks. In my defense, my defense was quite good. I had a better arm than most girls because, I believe, the point and throw method is dumb.
There were parts of softball that I did like. When we all cheered I felt like part of a group. I was able to have sleepovers with teammates and talk about clothes. I missed playing with Gabe, but we still played catch together in our yard. He was continuing to improve, and made the Majors All-Star Team. I became happy for him, rather than jealous of his superiority at the sport.
I eventually had to give up the game of bat and ball entirely; I didn’t have time to play. However, I haven’t forgotten about my baseball beginnings. Gabe and I still relate over the game. We went to the final game of the A’s division series- against the Twins- together, just the two of us. Twin bonding, bonding with baseball.
For years I was embarrassed when boys would come up to me and tell me they remembered me from my baseball days. I’d think of those loose pants and my tomboyish ways and my cheeks would flush. Now, I can embrace my past.
“Yah, I was the girl in baseball.”
Gabe and I had a healthy competition.
Gabe would ask my Dad, “Who is your favorite kid? Me or Nini?”
“Well, Alina is my favorite girl and you are my favorite boy.”
“But if you had to pick one of us which one would it be?”
Single A meant a ball machine, 6 strikes, and 4 outfielders. Someone played pitcher, but they had to stand next to the ball machine. Often, the ball would hit the machine, bounce off wildly, and ruin the play.
Gabe and I rarely fought. When we did it was over something like who got to choose the nights movie. They were always quickly resolved with little effort. We had few physical fights, and those that happened generally ended with me curled up into a ball on the ground laughing hysterically. Gabe however, did like to get me into trouble with our parents. He would annoy and tease me until I’d finally get so mad that I’d strike.
Then, “Mommy, Nini hit me.”
Gabe occasionally got desperate and mischievous in his ploys. Once, he ran up to our Mom and showed her deep teeth marks digging into his arm.
“Mommy”, he said with tears welling up, “Nini bit me.”
“Alina Sophia, why did you bite your brother?”
“I didn’t”, I responded defensively.
It quickly became clear that some foul play was at work. It was Gabe’s word against mine. So, clever mother, she decided to do some detective work. She instructed each of us to take a piece of paper and bite down. This was pre-braces, a time when I would barely have to dress up to be a vampire. Two of my chompers stuck far out of line; they were so extreme that I rarely showed my teeth when I smiled because embarrassment. The imprint I left on the paper had two distinct teeth marks. My brother’s arm did not. Foiled trickster, ha.
There was a boy named Zack, and he had a crush on 3rd grade Alina. I found him nice to look at, but I wasn’t ready for a relationship to develop. However, he and Gabe were friends. One sunny Saturday day, after a game he game over. They were chatting happily on the back porch, and I decided to join them. The two-person play date became a three person one, and the third wheel was my brother. After an hour my Mom called me into the kitchen.
“Alina, I think you need to let Gabe hang out with Zack.”
“But, he’s my friend too and we were having fun.”
“He’s here for Gabe, not you. Give them some space.”
I realized that it wouldn’t always be Gabe and I. Social expectations demanded that he have guy friends and my relationship with them couldn’t be the same. No more combined birthday parties at the batting cages.
In fifth grade my family went to an introduction night for King Middle School. We listened to teachers explain about the school and talk about all the great aspects of it. One teacher eventually got to the subject of sports. My previously drooping eyelids burst apart, and I leaned forward careful to catch every word.
“I threw my hand into the air excitedly, “Can girls be on the baseball team?”
“Well, there’s a softball team for girls”, replied the sexist teacher.
“I know, but I don’t want to play softball.”
“Well, I don’t know if that’s happened before, but I suppose there’s no rule against it.”
“Yes”, I said, accompanied by an arm jerking towards my body in a motion of triumph.
Interactions with other boys.
Conflict in beginning pages
More dialogue in beginning pages.
Show part about me sitting on the bench while he plays
Show jealousy more
Emphasize difference in part about all-star game
Get rid of so many would’s in that part
Interactions with other boys.
Dreams of being a pro earlier
More about julia
One practice I decided it would be cute to wear my new basketball jersey from my cousin. I’d graduated from the boy clothing stage, but somehow I thought a basketball jersey would be attractive on me. I arrived at practice with a sweatshirt pulled over the Timber Wolves. I quickly realized the error in my judgment, the jersey was gigantic, and I was going to look ridiculous. During our warm up jog I began to heat up. As practice continued the combination of bright sun, a thick black sweatshirt, and doing an intense physical activity caused me to perspire. I went the entire practice trying to decide if my discomfort was worth the fashion faux pas I would make by exposing the jersey. Fashion won out, and I have sworn off jerseys, for all activities other than professional sporting events, ever since.