Three clinks of the bat. Three taps on home plate. I arranged my batting gloves to the same rhythm I have always. The crowd behind me roared ever louder as the pitcher began his stroll on the mound. They roared and roared and then finally...silence. The ball began its journey from the pitcher's paws to home plate. A journey that my bat will hopefully impede. As the pitch grew closer my vision grew cloudy. I watched it travel its full journey, uninterrupted. Low and away. ‘Ball one’ said the burly umpire behind the catcher. I let out a sigh. It was time for me to undergo my ritual of baseball. Three clinks of the bat. Three taps on home plate. My love of the game would lessen with every turn in a mind filled with unfound baseball superstition.
The day before the game, however, always had the most extreme symptoms. I would often find myself staying up until early morning unable to sleep. When I did fall asleep, I would eventually be awoken by the same croaking alarm sound. While I showered, a particular light remained on. Home by myself, I would lock particular doors for no reason. All for the simple purpose of not disrupting rhythm. God forbid, I did something that drew bad luck.
It had ultimately become apparent. My Obsessive Compulsive Disorder had taken over my life. From the baseball diamond, to my bedroom, the dark shadow cast by my OCD would loom over my life. From it all, my passions truly suffered. Unable to turn to what formerly served as my sanctuary of solace, I could never escape the reigns of this horrific ailment.
This struggle is not a newly forming one. Since as long as I could remember, the effects of my illness have prevented me from truly enjoying my biggest passion. The stress that arose, as each game drew nearer, would make my life unbearable. The jitters and shivers. The long days and sleepless nights. All for what? Why do something if I physically could not enjoy it?
After countless days, the long awaited epiphany had finally struck me.
Gameday had arrived. That morning, I overslept my alarm. A trivial issue, yeah, but to me it made my skin crawl. I reluctantly went to school, and throughout my day I noticed that I would occasionally break the strict pregame rituals that I had created for myself. Heading into the game, I had not yet experienced any repercussions for not strictly adhering to the superstitions I had previously set for myself. As the innings went by, I simply waited for my reckless breaking of my superstitions to catch up to me. The birds still chirped. The wind still blew. The fans still cheered. In that moment, it shocked me that life simply went on. Before I knew it, the game was over. We won.
    From that moment, the guilt of playing baseball had disappeared. I did not play because I had some sort of nonsensical obligation to not anger the “baseball gods”. I did not play because the superstitions dictated my actions. I played because of me. My passion for the game had returned. As the dark cloud of OCD that used to loom over me dissipated, I once again had a future to look forward to. One with bright skies, and with my love for the game of baseball.