What's Left of My High School Crush

A personal essay by Kevin Dorman

She taught me to love, but I stopped loving her back.

The high resolution image couldn’t possibly capture, nor could it contain, her transcendent character; yet, in the first instant of exposure, I perceived passion, courage, and a winning mentality—this girl was designed for greatness. My intense glance caramelized into a solid stare, fixating my enchanted eyes on the flickering monitor screen, maybe for a whole ten minutes. I wasn’t merely attracted to her; I was enraptured by her, smitten, felled. Felled by this flawless Facebook photo. More like an advertisement, really.

That sacred Saturday afternoon, nestled in the eons of eternity, marked the first time I succumbed to love.

First Date
I didn’t meet her until the fall of 2011, though, nearly two months later. I, a confident junior; she, a newly planted plebe, ready to be broken in to the high school experience. As a respected upperclassman, I considered it my honorable duty to take on that necessary responsibility. Calculated courting resulted in the acceptance of a first date.

Aware, agonizingly so, of the high stakes, I brought her to the most romantic venue I knew: the ballfield. The details of the tryst have hardly escaped my memory. I still remember how she smelled—new. At 6:32 PM, we unloaded out of my dad’s white Ford F-150 that I begged to borrow for the evening and headed for right field, the long grass, not mowed for over a month, slowing my nervous steps. We finally settled in under the towering, tilted pine, still dropping sap and drooping over the outfield wall like the arms of an overeager fan, ready to unwittingly interfere with would-be home run robberies. I was never one to woo women with words—they stick to my tongue like lingering pine tar—so like the great Greg “Mad Dog” Maddux, instead of overpowering with hyperbolic professions of besottedness, I approached her with craft. I tried to start with a slow one to get her off balance. “Have you played much ball before?” I asked. She smirked. Gosh, that was cutest smirk, I stupidly thought to myself. I was quickly the one behind in the count. I scrapped the chitchat and tossed her the ball. She effortlessly trapped the ball in the pocket.

Soon the air was filled with a steady popping like that of a child’s toy gun. The ball whistled out of my fingers and snapped into her waiting target. As someone who sends more prayers to the Man above when the playoffs roll around in October, I am unabashedly biased; however, I insist that playing catch is undoubtedly the most romantic activity two lovers can engage in. Forget cuddling on a cool, starry night in the park. Forget touring the Canal Saint-Martin on an extended retreat. Catch—simple and sincere— connects two souls in a way few other actions can. We didn’t say much that night, which, for most first dates, is asking for a handshake at the doorstep. But we didn’t have to. We threw; we caught; we understood.

By the end of the evening I had learned three things: she could handle the curve; she had soft, smooth fingers that drove me wild when they brushed mine; and she was all I wanted in life.

First Season
Later that fall and into winter when it got cold—as it does so early and for so long in eastern Idaho—I didn’t see her as frequently. Besides the undesirable weather, homework demanded attention intended for her. Occasionally I’d work out with her in the school gym, but the loud environment, stuffy with sweat, watered down the ambiance.

Thankfully, glorious spring came and coaxed the sun to return to its place in the sky. She (and her beautiful skin) ventured out to welcome it back. I don’t believe in objectifying women, but especially this time of year she looked so good. I loved that my teammates would all subtly admire her.

I started seeing her every day after school because she joined the baseball team equipment staff. This frequent interaction soon built a strong bond between us, more covalent than ionic since we shared so much with each other. Successfully building relationships, like successfully fielding a ball, is seated in repetition, drilled into habit. Day after day, week after week. I eventually felt that we didn’t have to think much when we were together—she was somehow an extension of my instincts. I reacted, and she in sync. I reached, and she provided the extra few inches needed to achieve. That success gifted me confidence, which flourished into admirable work on the diamond, which translated into newspaper article interviews, which inflated a ballooning head, which popped with a disgraceful defeat. By my side, she was there through that seemingly immensely important season of life.

Last Glove

Sadly, the dominating memory I have of her is her—worn out and betrayed—laying lifeless in my closet. This piece is not a confession, I think. Nor is it an expression of regret or remorse. Perhaps, however, it’s an attempt at reconciliation. Because I loved her. I really loved her. But something deep inside the core of our indestructible love somehow broke, then crumbled. After the season ended, my desire to be with her mysteriously, inexplicably faded. In fact, I eventually left the country. Moved to Hong Kong and learned Chinese. I even preached Jesus. And when I came back, the sparks were there, but the flame never rekindled. I went to college, and she came too. We went out once, played catch, understood. But didn’t love. Not again.

She’s still in my closet. The best part of so many memories: happy, sad, but mostly love. She will always be my high school crush. My favorite baseball glove. My Rawlings. But that’s it.