He concentrated on the ball whizzing past him. THOP it went and disappeared into the soft cow of the catcher's mitt. STEEEEEEEE(the umpire took too much pleasure in this)RIIIIIIKE. He touched the bat to the corner of the plate, took a deep breath, and waited. THOMP a bit different this time, disappearing into the glove and a yell of STEEEEEEEEEEEEEERIIIIIIIIIKE from the ump and all was again right with the world.
He didn't know what the score was. His coach had told him to strike out on purpose, to put the team in a better position for Big Dave to clean three more team mates off the bases and make his RBI 3 higher and his batting average .004% higher, to make his chances of getting into state .6% better, to make his chances of getting into MLB 5% better, to make his chances of getting busted for steroids 27% better, to make his chances of losing a wife, a child, a career, a lot of money and his life 3% better.
The ball floated toward him. He swung and got a home run, but nobody felt good about it.
Big Dave eventually went to work at the factory and died in his sleep after telling his fourth great-grandchild about how his bid for MLB was sunk by Bobby McKensie and his stupid home run.
He died the next year in a car accident. He hit a tree. No one else was injured.
That's fascinating, but also sad, but also well-written. I don't even care that my grammar could be better.
ReplyDeleteIt depressed me as I wrote it.
ReplyDeleteI can see why. We really need to start writing happy, fun things.
ReplyDelete