Can't Stand You

Strikeouts and Blackout

Greetings!

I finally did it. I updated. Hopefully, my suckish updating schedule doesn't deter you from reading this.

We're close to being done, but it's getting better I promise.

Keep doing what you guys are doing.

Read, like, comment, and fan!!!!!

Love,
Elle
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I tossed the ball over to first base and waited as Miles continued to roll grounders to the infielders for warmups. The dirt was freshly raked and was one of the nicest infields I've ever played on. Being a major league field, they had to keep it up to par.

"Balls in," Eli yelled from behind the plate.

I jogged over to second to catch the throw down from him. The throw was on the money as always for Eli.

We threw the ball around the corners before meeting to give high fives in the middle. Miles at least slapped my hand and glove this game.

We were the home team, which meant taking the field first. Blood was pounding in my ears from pure adrenaline. This was it. We had worked all season to be in this game, and we had done it. There was only one mission left and it was to win this game.

The batter took his time getting in the box, digging his front toe into the dirt.

I glanced over at our dugout. Seriousness was written over each of their faces. Scanning the line of them, my eyes settled on Walker. He hung on to the fence to keep his balance because of the sprained ankle he had suspended in the air behind him. A trainer had come to securely wrap his ankle and tape an ice bag to his injured foot. He had been advised to keep all weight off of that leg, but Walker being Walker, refused to sit down. Now, he just resembled a flamingo.

Walker's eyes met mine and a smile worked its way to his mouth. He mouthed a "you got this," which I gratefully accepted with a nod.

A small swell of confidence rose in my chest. Over the course of camp, I had become aware of Walker's tendency to only tell exactly what he thought and not anything more. He will not sugarcoat the situation or say anything he didn't mean. Walker said everything straight, and the encouraging words were a sign he truly meant it.

Just in time, I looked in to see Eli giving the pitch call to Jackson.

An inside fastball.

I moved to my right a few steps to be ready for the pull or flare near the third baseline, two common outcomes of Jackson throwing an inside fastball.

The batter took the strike, getting the timing down for the rest of his at-bat.

Eli tossed the ball back to Jackson after framing it. Everyone milled around in their position, gloves off, kicking the dirt.

The sweat from standing out on the field was already forming on my hairline. There wasn't a cloud in the sky today, and the sun was once again beating down. It was cooler than one hundred degrees, but the humidity was still very much present.

Jackson readied himself to deliver the next pitch. I looked in to see a curveball being called.

I took a ready position as Jackson lifted his leg and prepared to step forward.

The pitch came in low and the batter let it go. The count was now 1-1.

I dragged my toe around in the dirt in front of me. My dad's hero stood in this very spot countless amounts of time. I had watched Derek Jeter walk around the same way as I was many times on TV. I never missed watching a Yankees game. The idea just kept me closer to the feel of my dad. I reached up to touch the silky blue ribbon in my hair. The familiar frayed ends brushing against my finger tips.