The baby-faced rookie wipes sweat from his forehead. Looks straight into the eyes of his childhood hero. His mind races, split-seconds before the action.
Last game of the season, my first year in the bigs. Neither team’s going anywhere. He was playing when I was in little league. Never faced him before. Sounds like he’s done after today. Full count. One chance to put him down… or make his day. Why not? Throw him a fat one, let him go out with a dinger.
The ball heads toward home, maybe going seventy-five, right over the plate. He swings high.
The grizzled veteran rubs his hands together, steps into the batters box. Looks straight into the eyes of the rookie. Kid looks young enough to be my kid. His mind races, split seconds before the action.ReplyDelete
Last game of the season, last game of my career. Game means nothing. He was in diapers when I was a rookie. Just getting started. Full count, ruin his first game...or make his day.
Here it comes, fat one, right over the plate, wait, wait, wait...swing.
Rod, thanks for the come back. well done. ah, the love of baseball.ReplyDelete
I love that you love baseball, because I do, too and I enjoy your flash posts on it. Great piece!ReplyDelete