The Hit

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I held the bat in my hands, excitement flowing through my body in every direction. Another try couldn’t hurt. I craved for that first clean, solid hit. Who cares if it came in my backyard? One hit. That’s all I wanted.

I begged my older brother to come outside and pitch to me. Dad was at work and my sister and mom weren’t into that sort of sports thing. I importuned and I even got my mom on my side, but no. Evidently, it seemed, a 9-year old had better things to do than play with his 6-year old brother.

The next time my brother’s friend came over, I suckered him into coming outside; putting on that baby face and whining consistently. He tossed a couple of pitches before I finally made contact with one.

Pop! The ball went flying off my bat, and I looked around for where it would land. All I saw was the ball hit my pitcher’s throat. He was left gasping for breathe and he rushed inside, barely able to breathe. I remember my mom started yelling at me for hitting the ball so hard at his throat; he might’ve died. I didn’t have the courage to talk back to her and quivered in fear of what would happen next. Now, for sure my mom said, he would never want to come back again His mother would create a huge scene at church the next weekend and never let her live this down.


Crawling out from under the safe, warm sheets of my bed later that night, I asked my brother, “But what about my hit?”





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