America's Pastime

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Sports  |  House: Booksie Classic
A glimpse into the amazing game of baseball

Submitted: December 12, 2010

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Submitted: December 12, 2010

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The smell of freshly laid chalk, dusty with a hint of paint tingled my nose. The brown brick dust covered the infield; freshly cut grass was still wet from the pregame watering. I had heard about it but I never thought anything could be this beautiful. The sound of a bat making solid contact leaving the ringing crack sensation in my ears. The pop the glove makes when a blazing fastball hits the catcher’s outstretched hand. Aggressive baserunners with the pitter-patter of their metal spikes on the basepaths, a trail of dirt spraying up behind them like a wake.
I was five years old when my dad took me to my first Cal State Fullerton Titan baseball game. I got into the car that afternoon thinking we were going to my grandma’s house. I realized about halfway through the car ride that we had past my grandma’s house and I was filled with anxiety. The scenarios started running through my head. Maybe we were going to the store first? Maybe my dad forgot how to get to her house? Or maybe we weren’t going to her house but somewhere else instead?We pulled into a large parking lot; there were parking spaces as far as my little eyes could see. I had never been to this place before, but this place would be a place that would change my life forever. At my first glance I could not believe the vast size of the field. I loved the way that music filled the entire stadium. I was so overwhelmed I could not say anything.  I stood there with my eyes staring straight ahead of me, focused on an invisible object floating over the middle of the outfield. My hands were stuck in my pockets, stapled to the sides of my jeans. I looked like a bug because my eyes were so enormous, staring at players throwing the ball so hard, that I could not even see it.
Although the game of baseball has changed greatly over the past twelve years, my view of the game has not changed one bit. Even when I was a little kid I could imagine myself hitting when I was putting on my uniform before the game. Now, it only intensifies. My feet are firm in the batter’s box. I dig my right shoe into the chalk at the back of the batter’s box. Feet shoulder width apart, left foot even with the front of the plate. I point my bat at the pitcher’s head daring him to challenge me with a fastball. Tap the back, then front right, then middle of the plate with my bat. Pull up my right side of my pants, fix my helmet, and then I’m ready to go. My knees bent slightly, hands shoulder high, moving just enough to keep myself occupied while I wait for the pitcher to deliver to the plate. When he does, I’m ready.My bat flies down through the strike zone like an eagle diving after its prey. My hands even with the bat head, waist high, gripping the bat so tight my veins pop out of my forearms. My teeth clench. I put 110% effort and strength into every single swing I take. I have, however, practiced my swing so many times that I don’t even think about it when it is happening. All I think is “see ball hit ball.”
When I step onto the field I forget everything that has been going on in my life. Time just stops for me. No matter what is going on with my friends, family, or school, when I step onto that field it is like stepping into a safe house. Bullet-proof glass surrounds me, a triple lock door is the only was in or out, and I am the only one who knows the combination. I am invincible; no one can touch me, they can’t even come close.The baseball field is my home, and I will live here as long as my abilities allow me to. 


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