The rubber stands alone, surrounded by a mountain of dirt,

everything is quiet, I am in the driver’s seat.

My legs are silent, arms are gently placed at the hips.

I can feel the sweat trickle down the sides of my face,

fear is on the verge of flooding my headspace.

Nonetheless, I gaze into the widespread palm of the tattered catcher’s mitt.

The challenger taps the plate and points his weapon of destruction in my direction.

Relaxing deep breathes allow me to begin my pitching sequence.

My moldy cleats pierce the skin of the rubber as I glue myself to the uneven surface.

I squint at the location of my target and take my pitch signs.

The catcher signals for my fastball, and I communicate a nonchalant nod in agreement.

I am in full control.

No turning back.

All eyes are on me as I whip my left leg up in tremendous fashion and prepare to let it fly.

The roar of the crowd produces a boost of adrenaline that courses through my thigh.

Letting go, I beg to hear the sound,

of a loud strike three while standing on the mound.