Softball
The bench feels warm, for I have been sitting here for an extended period of time, awaiting my turn at bat. I glance at the scoreboard in left-center field; we are down to our last chance, and our best hitter is up. As the pitch slowly arcs through the air, and man in the crowd calls out, "Sa-winnggg, battabattabatta, sa-winnggg batta!" There is a loud crack, and the ball screams down the line. It bounces once and is scooped up by the third baseman, who takes two quick steps toward first before throwing. The balls sails over the outstretched glove of the first baseman, and the runner is awarded second base. Now it is my turn. It is pretty hard to strike out in softball, unless you are swinging for the fences, which is exactly what I am doing. I approach the plate and tap the insides of my cleats with my bat for a prolonged period of time. I don't know why I do it, but it seems to annoy the pitcher if you do it long enough. I dig in and await my pitch. The first one comes in, but I am too deep in thought to notice. A called strike. I wait for the next pitch, but am distracted by the catcher, who says, "How 'bout those Giants, they can't hardly buy a loss." Swing and a miss. I step out of the batter's box and shake it off. Checking the signal, I step in again one last time. I adjust my stance as well as my crotch and spit on the catcher's shoe. The umpire notices this and tosses me from the game. Fortunately, my substitute comes in and hits the game-winning homer.
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