The Gods of Second Base Smite Me Again
I’ve skinned my knee.
::is nine::
It’s one of those nice little well-behaved grounders until eight inches before your glove when it decides to defy gravity and leap into the air and you hit the dirt straining to block it with your body and your limbs flail about wildly, hoping, hoping it hits them and it does and your hand is scrabbling around for the ball, any ball, come on where is it and the runner must have rounded the bases three times by now and yes! there it is and it squirts out of your dusty grasp but your hand frantically skims the ground again and grabs it and you desperately lob it over your shoulder in the vague direction of first base and the first baseman actually catches it and you heave yourself to your knees to see the play and the umpire shouting “SAFE!” with an unnecessary note of satisfaction in his tone, you have to say.
It was a little satisfying to see the blood where that layer of skin used to be, considering how much the darn thing was stinging. If I’m going to sacrifice myself to the Gods of Second Base again, AND not get the out, at least I want something to show for it. Pity isn’t a lot to ask.
We lost. Again. But only 10-6, so it wasn’t that bad. Me striking out TWICE, yes, that part was bad.
I actually hit the ball on my third and last time up (2 outs, of course), but the shortstop caught it easily (with an unnecessary note of satisfaction in his catching technique, I have to say). As I jogged dispiritedly back to the dugout, everyone was already coming out. That was the last inning, and I hadn’t even known it. I was the last out of the game. Again.
AGAIN.
That’s four games out of a total eight games. That should be statistically impossible.
::peers suspiciously at Gods of Home Plate::
::is nine::
It’s one of those nice little well-behaved grounders until eight inches before your glove when it decides to defy gravity and leap into the air and you hit the dirt straining to block it with your body and your limbs flail about wildly, hoping, hoping it hits them and it does and your hand is scrabbling around for the ball, any ball, come on where is it and the runner must have rounded the bases three times by now and yes! there it is and it squirts out of your dusty grasp but your hand frantically skims the ground again and grabs it and you desperately lob it over your shoulder in the vague direction of first base and the first baseman actually catches it and you heave yourself to your knees to see the play and the umpire shouting “SAFE!” with an unnecessary note of satisfaction in his tone, you have to say.
It was a little satisfying to see the blood where that layer of skin used to be, considering how much the darn thing was stinging. If I’m going to sacrifice myself to the Gods of Second Base again, AND not get the out, at least I want something to show for it. Pity isn’t a lot to ask.
We lost. Again. But only 10-6, so it wasn’t that bad. Me striking out TWICE, yes, that part was bad.
I actually hit the ball on my third and last time up (2 outs, of course), but the shortstop caught it easily (with an unnecessary note of satisfaction in his catching technique, I have to say). As I jogged dispiritedly back to the dugout, everyone was already coming out. That was the last inning, and I hadn’t even known it. I was the last out of the game. Again.
AGAIN.
That’s four games out of a total eight games. That should be statistically impossible.
::peers suspiciously at Gods of Home Plate::