Chamaleh

It was my turn to bat. Again. I struck out the first time and hit an easily caught popup the second time. I could hear groans from my teammates as I prepared to walk to home plate. We were losing 2-3. It was the last inning and we had two people on bases. I wished it would rain. Hard. I wished it were someone else’s turn. 

Our camp counselor, Max, had given us all nicknames. Mine was the Blonde Bomber. It fit my 11-year-old self. I bombed almost every time I came up to bat. When he saw it was my turn he asked for a brief time out. Everyone on both teams shouted their displeasure. He held up his hand and said, “This will only take a minute. Everyone take a drink.” We all liked him. A lot. Everyone did what he said.

He motioned for me to come over to where he was standing, a bit away from the others. I walked slowly. Anything to prolong having to bat. He squatted down. I squatted next to him. “Nancy,” he said kindly, “you’re a good athlete but you don’t give yourself credit. You’re your own worst enemy.” I shook my head. He was just being nice. I thanked him and stood up. Was that why he wanted to talk to me?

He stood up, took my little hand in his great big hand and said, “When you hit the ball you have to give it a chamaleh.”

“A what?” He repeated it, grinning.

“What’s a chamaleh?” I’d never heard the word though it sounded like the Yiddish my parents spoke and kept as their secret language.

“It means: When you get up to bat, hit the ball with all you’ve got as hard as you can and shout ‘Chamaleh.’”

“That’s a lot of English for a word I’ve never heard.” I thought he was teasing me to try to make me feel better. I didn’t.

“Doesn’t matter that you’ve never heard it. Just do what I say. When you hit the ball as hard as you can, shout it out. Loud and strong.”

“Everyone’s gonna laugh at me.”

“No they won’t. They’ll be stunned. I promise you.” My disbelief was evident. “No arguing. Just do what I say. Shout ‘chamaleh’ when you hit the ball and hit it harder than you’ve ever hit a ball.” 

“How can you promise I’ll do something I’ve never done?”

“Always a first time, right?” He walked me back, smiling. “Just remember: You’re the Blonde Bomber. Use your power.”

I picked up the bat repeating the weird word in my head. I swung at the first ball, hit it as hard as I could, shouting “Chamaleh.” The ball zoomed past the third baseman, deep into the outfield. For a second I stood, unable to move. Frozen. Amazed.

I heard my teammates yell, “Run!”

I didn’t need to run. I had hit the ball so hard and so far it took the outfielders awhile to find it. By the time they threw it to the kid at home base I had easily hit a home run. We won 5-2.


What does it feel like when someone promises you can do something you’ve never done?