Mid-parabola sun. Brick-red clay dolloped with white squares. Sunflower seeds sail across the horizon. Rubber spikes dithering upon grassy fields. Leaned against a chain-link fence, a lone bat snoozes.
Atop a dune, the heavily perspiring ten year-old figure contorts like an unfolding lawn chair and flings the stitched ball plateward. From nearby bleachers, supportive calls emanate, the maternal buttressing causing two children’s faces to turn bright red and another more contemptuous youth to stick his tongue out in the motherly direction, an action which causes a not slender woman to rise and fall back and rise again with a raised fist and the type of voice one might find in the parrot cage at the local pet shop (during a fire), to hurl verbal obscenities across the diamond, and to the dismay or disgust of more than one on-field coach and at least one hamburger-flipper volunteering to monitor the barbecue pit, causes the upper crust of her waistband to sag below her waistline to reveal a backside tattoo indicating Mike was Here, accompanied by a southerly pointed arrow below which a footnote declares, and here too.
The pitch arcs on a negative seven degree vector and strikes or is struck by, a 34-inch Easton Big Barrel which lay in the bony fingers of an undersized eleven year-old whose prematurely aggressive case of acne and breath-a-tic-tac-wouldn’t-hurt, provides physical substantiation for his all-too-satirical last name of Grossman. Plus the kid drools when he swings and can’t hit worth a shit. Like a staggering drunk (ironic because Grossman’s father is in the stands nursing a fifth of JD, which let’s be honest, can’t be helping the kid), the ball skitters its way forward about six feet as Grossman hauls ass northeast toward first base. Sixteen seconds later, the first baseman is squelching a retch as Grossman stands on the bag with his breath tying a noose around the poor sap holding him on.
I guess the point here is I’m tired of people saying baseball is boring.