Batter's Box: a Novel

You carefully place the dirt-covered cleat on your foot towards the pitcher. The other is behind the first, ready to turn. You move your hands on the bat's grip till you find the sweet spot. You know before you hit the ball where it's going. You feel the adrenaline rush, and the muscle strain as the baseball smacks the bat. You can feel the spring it gets as it goes over the outfielder's heads. You run hard, breathing deeply. You round a ripped first base, you round a defeated second baseman, you start to pull your energy from the source that you keep bottled up for moments like these. You are a stride or two away from home plate, and the ball is in your vision. Your reflexes throw you in the dirt just underneath the catcher's tag. Only then do you dare to look up to smile at your team. Your team rushes out to celebrate with you. The feeling of what you just did catches up to you. Your smirk turns into a wide grin. You did it. You won the game. The only thing you didn't do was know I was watching you.