They are the only ones who get to me. I am the only one who get to them. Three leather baseballs with ridged seams and rough skin like mine. Three who were misjudged by a higher power. Three spinning orbs flung into collision. From the batter’s box I see them thoroughly, but the umpire blinks.

His call is fatal. That strike may be the devastator of my time here. They fly by my eyes, in the dirt and in the opposite box. Yet they are still striking me.

Each in a different place, yet each receiving the same result. Strike, Strike, Strike he announces while stand there. I’m out.

When I cannot swing anymore, when I am forced to retreat this battle, I look at those three. When there is nothing left for me to do. Three who look back with evil red eyes. Three who float and gloat me. Three whose only reason is to make a fool of me.