Standing at bat, I can feel sweat sliding down my back and over my long forehead. I grip the bat tighter. I see Freddy, Mark, and Jo-Jo standing on base. They are waiting for that singular sound of wood and horsehide colliding. The ball flies past and there is a soft smack as it buries itself into a leather glove. Sports have never been my thing.
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That's heartbreaking. And the kid was probably picked last, too. "...there is a soft smack as it buries itself into a leather glove." I could hear the muffled pop of the ball. Good one, Heather!
ReplyDeleteMonica! So good to see you as always. I felt sad writing it. I'm glad that was conveyed.
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