Baseball

Standing in a chalked box. Heart pounds, eyes watch.

Waiting for delivery, hoping for something sweet. Arm extended, Ball set on flight, and years of mechanics take control. The ball sails forth, crossing the feet and inches in the blink of an eye. Looks good. Head down, eye on ball, swing.

Miss.

Strike One.

Failure to connect.

Stepping out of the batter's box, signs are received. Coach swiftly moving hands, swiping arms, broadcasting gibberish. Hand to brim, touching hat now. Indicator. This one's for real. Swipe across chest. Go-ahead for a hit-and-run. Nod.

Striding across the chalk once more, a niggling voice begins to chatter. Get out of your head, watch for the breaking ball. Could be a fastball high and inside. Don't choke. Gotta make contact.

Pitcher sneers from the stretch. Wink. Bring it.

He begins his movement. Weight shifting slightly, the boxed offender lifts a foot as ball is hurled forward.

Ball set on fire. Fastball, low and inside. Perfect.

Right foot instinctively strides forwards only an inch or two, weight put in motion. Quick pivot, early turn. Good batspeed connects with inside pitch.

Ping. It goes ping. Cheap bat, cheap aluminum. It goes ping.

But it goes.

Driven hard down the right-field line, just behind the Runner who is busy making dust as he rounds second and goes for third.

Return to Ball. It sails overhead, dropping fast onto the grass. Bouncing with all kinetic fury. Dribbling now, it rolls to the fence, fair.

Sinew and muscle pulled taught, Batter, in heroic fashion, rounds first, sprints a few paces, then breaks stride. Short, pattering steps kill momentum, as ball is brought back in close proximity.

Don't be stupid, don't get greedy. Nice hit.

Returning to first, I turn my back to the field. My foot instinctively finds bag. Safe.

Observe, all, as another steps into the chalked box, ready to stake his claim against the nine.

The cycle repeats.

Baseball.