𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐧 𝐛𝐞𝐧𝐧𝐲 | 𝐛. 𝐫𝐨𝐝𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐮𝐞𝐳

𝐟𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐞𝐧 | 𝐛𝐞𝐧𝐣𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐧

I'M SO ANGRY AT HAM, he just had to say something about the past. I couldn't have one nice tile with Lennon before my own personal anger took over again. Standing beside her, laughing with her, working on the batting roster, was so much fun. It was like we were teenagers again, sitting at my house in the kitchen, working on the batting roster for our miniature scrimmage against Phillips' team.

"Yeah, it's easy when you play with a bunch of rejects, a fat kid, and a chick, Rodriguez." Phillips said, cocky as ever.
"Shut your mouth, Phillips!" I exclaimed, point the wooden baseball bat I had in my hand at him.
"What'd you say, crap-face?" Ham asked, angry as ever.
Phillips and Ham had an outstanding hatred for one another, especially because Phillips and his team wouldn't stop scouting for me to play with them. We had an outstanding rivalry, mostly because of baseball, but also because of Lennon. She was the first new girl the valley had seen in a while, and she enjoyed baseball, therefore, we both wanted her on our side. I was lucky enough to snag her first when she asked to come play with the boys and I.
"I said you shouldn't even be allowed to touch a baseball. Except for Rodriguez here, you're all an insult to the game." Phillips said.
"Come on! We'll take you on, right here, right now! Come on!" Ham exclaimed, even angrier than he already was.
"We play on a real diamond, Porter. You ain't good enough to lick the dirt off our cleats." Phillips said.
"Watch it, Jerk!" Han shouted, adjusting his backwards cap like usual.
"Shut up, idiot!"
"Moron!"
"Scab-eater!"
"Butt-sniffer!"
"Pus-licker!"
"Farr smeller!"
The boys laughed, joining in on the jokes and jabs at Phillips and his team. Lennon had her hand on her hip, the other hand leaning against her baseball bat.
"You eat dog-crap for breakfast, geek!"
"You make your wheaties with your mama's toe-jam!"
"You bob for apples in the toilet! And you like it!"
Ham glares at Phillips and tilts his head, crossing his arms over his chest.
"You play ball like a girl!" He shouts, glaring at Phillips.
I raise my eyebrows and look at Lennon, expecting her to be offended. She starts laughing, covering her mouth, knowing that Ham doesn't mean any offense towards her. She steps forward, clearing her throat.
      "Ham, if I may. Phillips doesn't play ball like a girl, he plays ball like a bitch. Two very different playing styles, if you ask me." Lennon says, placing a hand on her hip, the other still holding tight to her Baseball bat.
      Phillips gawks, taken back by Ham and Lennon's statements.
"What did you say?"
"You heard me." Lennon says. "Now beat it, asshat."
Phillips looks at his group of boys and rolls his eyes, looking back at Ham now.
"Tomorrow, noon, at our field. Be there, Buffalo-butt breath."
"Count on it, pee-drinking crap-face." Ham replies.
Anyone who could afford to play on the L.C. Romney Tigers was immediately put into a category—rich kid. Phillips and his friends were all rich kids who played for the Tigers, a team I never desired to play for because they were all jerks anyway. The Tigers also had to stick to a strict regimen of practice, sleep, what to eat, and how often to rest. If you played for them, they controlled your whole life until the day you left. If you played in the Sandlot, you played whenever you wanted, however long you wanted, and no one could tell you otherwise. Night games were my favorite, especially the Fourth of July. Although the Sandlot was a public baseball field and anyone who wanted to play there could, it was an unwritten, unspoken rule that Lennon, the boys, and I all played there the most often. During the weekends, we'd play from maybe eight in the morning to about nine at night, maybe sooner depending on dinner or sleep overs. During school days, as soon as we got home, we'd grab our stuff and run to the sandlot. We'd play till about six-ish, maybe seven if we were lucky and didn't have a lot of homework. During the summer, we'd play at about nine in the morning to maybe ten, sometimes midnight even. Then Lennon left, and the group fell apart. No—I fell apart.

"Benny, you're on deck!" Daniel says, pointing to the On-Deck circle.
      I nod and grab my bat and helmet. I pull my helmet on and walk to the circle, warming up my shoulder. Lennon sits near the dugout, reading over the roster. I walk past her, groaning out sharply.
      "Hey, Davis?" I ask, calling her by her last name like old time.
      She raises her head, looking up at me, an eyebrow raised. I practice a swing and look back at her, exhaling.
      "We are going to have to talk about it eventually. Not today, not tomorrow, not even the day after that, but eventually, we'll talk about what happened. Ham was right. We do have to talk eventually." I say.
      She smiles and nods, in a little bit better of a mood than she was before I spoke to her.
      "And, Lennon, for the record," I say quietly. "I don't hate you."
      Gregory swings the bat and makes a stunning double. He runs quickly, sliding into second base, dirtying his jersey. I approach the plate, raising my bat. I stand with my feet shoulder width apart, exhale sharply and get into the proper position. We're playing the Astros again, meaning this roster is our best chance at beating them. We're currently down two with four more innings to try and make up for the fall behind. If can I get a Home run now, we'd be tied with them—Gregory coming from second base, and me following him. I have to try—I've always had pretty good luck with the boys, maybe now they can give me a bit of that luck again. Chip nods to his catcher and raises his leg, then his arm and pitches. I swing the bat.