Baseball Days in Bucho

My dusty hands gripped the black tape of the long silver bat. I twirled it, cracking my wrists. I flipped it over my head and felt the chords of muscle in my shoulders stretch. "Two outs, one strike, one ball," according to the handsome blonde umpire who hovered beside my shoulder.

I adjusted the thin fabric of the hood over my forehead, sealing away the sun from my skin in the open stretch of the ball field. I shuffled my feet in the dirt and brought the bat over my shoulder. I peered at the only runner at second, shuffling a few yards onto the baseline. I then fix my gaze onto the thin pitcher. Sapphire eyes met sapphire eyes; amusement glinting in his. His skinny frame was swallowed in a large hoodie, and his mossy hair shrouded by a Sum 41 cap. One gloved hand hangs by his thigh as the other, enclosing a small worn ball, rests on his hip. I stiffened my back when he made a move; switching his feet and casting his gaze past his shoulder, he brought the ball to his chest. Taking a heartbeat to tuck in a breath beforehand, he lifted a knee, pulling back an elbow. He took a deep step and his arm swings around, fingers lashing toward the ground, his shoulder the pivot. The blurry ball glides off his wrist and left his fingers, carried alongside the woof of air that fell off his slack jaw.

Grubby silver and white molded together in a flash when bat lashed around and chopped ball, creating a hollow crack of thunder. The pitcher jolts aside when the ball whisked by to take off his head, driving straight between center and right field. I ditched the bat and took off over the clumpy dirt. I round the marker for first, past the baseman. I hurried to and around second, grabbing a glimpse of the fielder throwing the ball to the runty shortstop positioned as cutoff in the outfield. I rushed toward third, glancing up at the fiery-haired baseman squarely obstructing the line, a yard away from the base. His weary brown eyes gazed at me coolly, a small grin splitting his face. The ball finds it's way into the baseman's naked hand and I threw myself past him, tripping over his outstretched leg. My chin hooked down and I crashed onto my shoulder blades, toppling onto my back at the edge of the infield. My arms flew out, knuckles clicking the dirty base as all the air surged from me and left me choked up in the dust. I sat there for a second, my head cluttered with topsyturviness.

Harsh light occupied my face with a shock. Perched high in the sultry air, the sun glowers down with it's heated brilliance. I feel my face grow ten degrees warmer from the glare; then another five or so when a pleasing face, laced with shadow, muses down at me through his dark shades; his neatly combed head blotted out the sun. A word leaves the Umpire's quirked lips and the red haired baseman strides into view, towering near my head with a rare, cocksure grin on his face. "Out!"