Through my caged helmet, I make eye contact with the pitcher. Near my calf, I show my index finger and thumb.
This is the second time we have changed our signs this game. But he knows what it means. He nods.
The batter is on the balls of his feet, awaiting the approach of a small once-white sphere.
The pitcher looks at the dirt surrounding his cleats, holding the ball in his glove, close to his chest.
He looks towards home.
As he winds up, I can see his love and dedication. It radiates through the pitch as the ball shoots toward my glove, lacking any arch.
The batter is ready to swing, winds his arm, and WHOOSH. Swings using an arm capable of bench pressing a train.
The ball is no where in sight, but safely in my glove. For what the batter does not realize, is the ball dropped.
Just. Before. Gliding. Across. Home.
His furious glare melts as fast as it appeared.
He is focused. Concerned. Serious. Embarrassed.
I grin ever so slightly as i chuck the red laced ball back to the pitcher.
Here we go again.
