Bat swings and cracks against ball. Homerun. I did it!
Jack Largin was a small boy who had not much to look forward to. He came from a poor family full of drunkards and sluts. He wore a red baseball cap that attempted to mat down his unruly red hair. It curled like Shirley Temple and raged with colors like fire. The hair complimented a pale face with playful freckles. He was almost a poster child, but he was far too dirty. His parents would beat him and leave small cuts and bruises that the other kids couldn't help but notice. He liked to pretend he was a boxer and those were just battlescars from past fights. He would jab and weave at the air and tell his friends how he took down 'Ol Brewski in the 10th round. The kid was alright. He was a generally nice boy who get along well with Geoff. He was bitching.
His favorite poem came from a simple American author who wrote nothing but garbage, frankly. He could recite it by heart, though:
Bat swings and cracks against ball
Homerun
I did it!
And, oh, how he would recite it. You would think he wrote that fuck-up of a haiku, or something. Geoff was never really sure why he thought it was so great. Personally, Geoff was reading Moby Dick and found it fascinating.
Jack was up to bat; bottom of the ninth. It was a picture perfect scene that every movie has included. The ball field was nothing more than a large yard that belonged to an elderly woman. She never bothered the boys and even made them lemonade and cookies once. She once told them how her husband was in the Navy and how he was such a strong man. He would go off for days and days and not see her. Then she would talk about a telegram and get teary eyed. Those tears were wasted though. By then, the boys were back on the diamonds like the fucking Yankees.
Josh Parcey was pitching. He wanted this bastard gone. The umpire yelled "Shirley!", but was ignored by Jack. He was focused on the skinny figure on the pitcher's mound. The ball came a-flying. In his mind, Jack heard two announcers yelling into empty soup cans behind a wooden box with the words "COMENTATERS" sloppily painted on the front. The one man wore a derby and yelled with a high-pitched, "Taxi, taxi!" type of voice.
"That'll be strike one, folks. Jack needs to pull himself together."
The rest of the team sighed. Geoff was on third. This was his chance. Don't mess up, Jack.
Jack pulled his cap down. Here comes the ball.
"Wow. This has to be tough. He's been having such a good season!"
Before Jack knew it, a crowd had gathered. No, not just a crowd. A stadium full. They were screaming and cheering and holding signs. An overweight man sold peanuts and hot dogs. It was the real thing. He couldn't let his fans down.
Bat swings. Cracks against ball.
"It's in the air folks! It's looking golden! It's lookin' great! It's...it's..."
Homerun.
"It's outta here."
The crowd goes wild. Thousands are screaming as the runners take bases and finish off the game. It was still in the air.
The sound of glass breaking. A scream from an elderly woman.
I did it!
His favorite poem came from a simple American author who wrote nothing but garbage, frankly. He could recite it by heart, though:
Bat swings and cracks against ball
Homerun
I did it!
And, oh, how he would recite it. You would think he wrote that fuck-up of a haiku, or something. Geoff was never really sure why he thought it was so great. Personally, Geoff was reading Moby Dick and found it fascinating.
Jack was up to bat; bottom of the ninth. It was a picture perfect scene that every movie has included. The ball field was nothing more than a large yard that belonged to an elderly woman. She never bothered the boys and even made them lemonade and cookies once. She once told them how her husband was in the Navy and how he was such a strong man. He would go off for days and days and not see her. Then she would talk about a telegram and get teary eyed. Those tears were wasted though. By then, the boys were back on the diamonds like the fucking Yankees.
Josh Parcey was pitching. He wanted this bastard gone. The umpire yelled "Shirley!", but was ignored by Jack. He was focused on the skinny figure on the pitcher's mound. The ball came a-flying. In his mind, Jack heard two announcers yelling into empty soup cans behind a wooden box with the words "COMENTATERS" sloppily painted on the front. The one man wore a derby and yelled with a high-pitched, "Taxi, taxi!" type of voice.
"That'll be strike one, folks. Jack needs to pull himself together."
The rest of the team sighed. Geoff was on third. This was his chance. Don't mess up, Jack.
Jack pulled his cap down. Here comes the ball.
"Wow. This has to be tough. He's been having such a good season!"
Before Jack knew it, a crowd had gathered. No, not just a crowd. A stadium full. They were screaming and cheering and holding signs. An overweight man sold peanuts and hot dogs. It was the real thing. He couldn't let his fans down.
Bat swings. Cracks against ball.
"It's in the air folks! It's looking golden! It's lookin' great! It's...it's..."
Homerun.
"It's outta here."
The crowd goes wild. Thousands are screaming as the runners take bases and finish off the game. It was still in the air.
The sound of glass breaking. A scream from an elderly woman.
I did it!