THROWING LIKE A LITTLE GIRL: A CONFESSION TO THE SON I’LL NEVER HAVE, AND TO THE DAUGHTERS I DO.

Have you guys all seen that video of 50 Cent at Citi Field in New York throwing what the Internet has dubbed, “perhaps the worst pitch ever”?

The current number of YouTube views would suggest you probably have, but if somehow you’re the one who missed it, go ahead and Google, “worst pitch ever” or “horrible first pitch.” Don’t even waste time typing Fiddy’s name — it’s unnecessary. That’s how very, very bad it was.

Was it in fact the worst pitch ever thrown? Definitely not. But there’s no doubt it was a pitiful display. And for an artist whose professional credibility is so predicated upon maintaining his swag, the comedy of the wild pitch is undeniable.

To his very good credit, Mr. Cent handled his ignominious turn on the mound with disarming grace and humor. He clearly found it just as hilarious as the rest of us did, and his easy laughter and broad smile made me like and respect him so much more than any number of gunshot wounds he’s supposedly sustained.

Still, when I first watched the video, I didn’t laugh at all. Instead, my gut twisted in sympathetic discomfort for Curtis “50 Cent” Jackson.

Because I am a 42-year-old man who can’t throw a ball. Not for the life of me.

By way of personal disclaimer, I could do it, once upon a time. And I can still throw a football rather confidently. But for some reason I’ve completely lost the ability to execute a baseball-like throwing motion with any semblance of accuracy. Often, whatever projectile I’m hurling slams to the ground directly in front of me. It’s a truly pathetic thing to behold, but also kind of awesome. Next time you see me, ask me to try.

I have no idea when or how this happened to me. I grew up like a relatively normal kid. I played ball with my friends — all the balls, actually. My dad and I played catch in the yard. Not a lot, but it happened. I remember the cigarette dangling from his mouth, and the slap of leather growing louder and louder as we’d compete to see who could make the other’s hand sting. He pretty much always won that game, but in my defense, I was only 8 or 9.

So no, I definitely wasn’t always a complete spaz. And yet I definitely am, now.

When I was a younger man, my inability was the source of crippling anxiety. I learned to be quick with excuses to avoid softball games. But even dealing with a simple, “Hey Mike, could you toss me that [insert object here]?” would inspire terror, and very often expose me.

Along the way I manufactured a vaguely plausible hypothesis in order to explain to others (and to myself) how I had come to be so deficient in such a seemingly fundamental skill. I think I even believed it at some point. But the story was wrapped in so many layers of protective masculine bullshit, I could never genuinely expect anyone to swallow it.

“A football injury from high school,” I’d say. “Subluxed my shoulder. Lost some mobility.” The specificity of the diagnosis made it sound super legit. Go ahead! Look it up! It’s a real thing! And it really, honestly happened to me!

So just to be clear: doing this very manly, sporty football thing resulted in a manly, sporty injury, which in turn robbed me of the ability to do this other manly, sporty baseball thing.

Pretty lame, right?

Look, obviously I know most of this is just self-hypnosis — this whole “I-can’t-throw-a-ball” business is all in my head. Even the act of writing this story will further cement it into my psyche. Be that as it may, acknowledging the mental underpinnings of the problem has never made me suck any less at throwing a ball.

Now that I’m a bit older, I’m not as insecure about the whole thing. Much like 50 Cent up on the mound, I’m able to laugh at myself pretty effortlessly, these days.

But at some point, long before I became completely cool with my ball-throwing ineptitude, my wife became pregnant with our first child. And while I know admitting this will likely alienate pretty much any intelligent reader — while I know how chauvinistic, gender-biased, and downright politically incorrect this thought may seem — I can’t deny I entertained it at the time:

The way I saw it, I had a 50/50 chance. If we had a boy, my non-ball-throwing ass was grass. Because this boy would need to know how to throw a ball. As his father, I would need to teach him how. What kind of father could I be to a boy if I could not teach that boy the most basically “boyish” skill a boy could possess?

I even devised a plan — a promise to the 50% possibility of the son we might have. The plan involved a pitchback, a bucket of baseballs, a secluded clearing in the forest, and a moon phase calendar (because I would need some light).

I am not even slightly joking about this plan. I considered it at great length.

Of course, if we had a girl, I would be off the hook. Because, you know, girls don’t need to know how to throw a ball, right?

No, dummy! It’s not right. It’s 100% wrong, and everyone knows that. But look, I was terrified! Of being a father in general, but particularly of being the father of a boy.

The father-son relationship is an emotional minefield my dad and I never navigated very well. He did his best of course, but his own father died when he was just ten, so he didn’t have much of a playbook. In turn, he wasn’t able to pass one on to me.

It’s the classic story: He worked a lot. Wasn’t around much. When he was around it was uncomfortable. Like having a strange visitor in the house. We just didn’t know what to do with one another. By the time he and my mom split, I was just starting high school, and too self-involved to care. It was a sort of relief to be dad-less. And though we’re great friends now, I’m certain at the time he felt relieved to be son-less, too. We were both off the hook.

As it turns out, my wife and I did have a girl. Lola. The overwhelming flood of joy I felt the first time I held her in my arms, washed every insecurity from my head. She made me feel perfectly safe. Her eyes held no judgement against me. She didn’t seem to care whether or not I could throw a ball. She loved me just the way I was. Almost ten years later, I think she still does.

I have absolutely no frame of reference to back up this notion, but at the time, I felt like, as a man, I was hard-wired to love this little girl in a way that was fundamentally less complicated than it would’ve been with a boy.

My friends who had sons would all talk about the things they “can’t wait” to do with them — ride motorbikes, go snowboarding or fishing, and of course, play ball. To me, it seemed like a recipe for disappointment. What if their boys didn’t like motorbikes or fishing? What if they weren’t interested in playing ball?

With Lola, I never gave a moment of thought to the future. In her helplessness I understood my purpose — my male role. It was like having a tiny little girlfriend. All I had to do was hug her a lot, buy her pretty things, and make her feel important, safe and happy. I was quite confident I could at least be good at that.

Almost exactly six years later, my wife gave birth again. The road to that day was long and pock-marked with pain and difficult. I don’t recall if there were two or three miscarriages, and when I ask my wife, she chooses not to remember either. Each represented both a crushing emotional setback, and a loss of valuable time. There were a handful of IUI failures including one that resulted in a “non-viable” pregnancy (a confusing notion to hopeful parents). And finally, there was IVF. And finally we were successful. My wife was pregnant again.

Pregnant with triplets.

In our success, we’d veered down a whole new avenue of fear and anxiety. We were referred to specialists. We were given literature. We sat through consultations. This was, we were told, a very dangerous situation. Particularly given my wife’s “advanced maternal age” (we were nearly 40). The numbers seemed clear. They were clear. The risks involved with a triplet pregnancy were exponentially greater than with a twin pregnancy.And so we had a horrible choice to make.

It’s called, Selective Reduction. Which, let’s face it, is just a cruel euphemism.

In the weeks leading up to the procedure, my wife did all the right things. She grieved deeply. She educated herself. She talked about it openly and honestly. And when the day finally came, she’d reconciled herself to what needed to be done. She was resolute and strong.

I, on the other hand, struggled silently with my conflicted feelings and all the questions they raised. Had we pushed our luck, so to speak? We had one very perfect child, after all. Perhaps we should’ve walked away from the table while we were ahead. Were we meddling with things too much? Had we in fact meddled too much already?

When the day finally came, I had no answers. I was entirely unprepared for the weight of the hurt I would feel, and I buckled underneath it.

In the end, the choice was absolutely the right one to make, I know. It’s a choice that resulted in not one, but two more happy, healthy daughters. Ivy and Ginger. Girls I absolutely adore. Girls who’ve brought such hilarity and life to our family.

But the choice haunts me. It haunts my wife and I both. Yes things turned out perfectly. But perhaps things would’ve turned out perfectly regardless. We played the safest odds, but we can never know for sure what that alternative reality would’ve looked like.

If you flip a coin once, there’s a 50/50 chance it will land on heads. Flip that same coin a million more times, and those chances will never change. As counterintuitive as it may seem, statistically speaking it’s literally just as likely you’ll flip one million heads in a row, as it would be to flip any other combination.

So it is with the gender of children. Having one daughter has absolutely no statistical effect positively or negatively on whether your next child will be a boy or a girl.

Still, every now and then, in idle moments, I wonder about that third triplet. I’m sure I always will. I wonder if somehow I wished a little boy right out of my life. If somehow, the strength of my own silly self-consciousness — my overwhelming fear of having a son and of being a failure to him — may have willed him out of the realm of my possibility.

And if so, I’m so sorry, little man. Because if my daughters are any indication, you probably wouldn’t have judged me one bit. And we probably would’ve been great friends.

After all, plenty of girls can throw a ball really well. And some dads, well they just can’t.

Look at 50 Cent. He’s got two little boys. One of them is just a baby. And I bet they love him just the way he is.

Mike Howard recently quit a perfectly good job as an SVP/Creative Director at an ad agency to launch, Daughters & Howard, which he describes as “a creative undertaking of wild ambition, foolish optimism, and intentionally vague definition.”  He currently lives in Lexington, Massachusetts, where serves as the CEO/CCO (and sole employee).

Check out his work at daughtersandhoward.com.