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The Name Of The Game
Channel the mind,
around the chosen composite weapon of choice.
Gloves on, weight back. Take control of the next 10 seconds of the game.
Sweat rolling off the brow, never breaking concentration.
Focus and repeat,
“Pivot hips and drive it.”
Eye on the pitcher, warden of the threaded sphere.
those who have little knowledge of how her game is played.
She controls your actions, knowing every move you’re going to make even before you’ve decided.
When you decipher her rhythm it becomes your game.
In the background the encouraging sounds of your fans grow faint, “Hit it hard, honey!”
Uplifting phrases and cheerful sounds start to drown out.
The guardian releases her slave, now apply what you know.
Do not succumb to her hat tricks and last minute change-ups.
Silence, sweating, anticipation.
Your ears begin ringing from the hum of the bat making contact, that sweet spot that sends the ball above your opponent’s heads and out of the park.
Stunned, you drop the bat.
Running faster, the crowd’s cheering fueling your adrenaline, making your blood boil, making your legs go numb because of the sheer fact that they won’t move as fast as your mind is wanting them to go.
Approaching the goal, the starting point, the last ounce of energy must get you there.
Faster, farther, further. The goal becomes clearer, your destination within feet of your tired body.
Diving to the ground skidding forward, reaching for that deciding factor.
Winning or losing, playoffs or sitting in the stands.
Silence again, it falls over the crowd as the dust from your cleats bellows over the stands.
scoring the winning run.
Teammates hoist you upon their shoulders chanting with excitement.
“Until we meet again,” the wardens’ eyes read, “until we meet again.”