WEEKEND WRITE IN PROMPTS

Part 3, STRIKE, Dec 03

                                                                                STRIKE

                                                                                 Dec 03

In 1898 in Narrows, Georgia, all it took to get a game of baseball started was for a couple of kids to walk down the street to the open lot in the neighborhood. One of them would need to have found a baseball of course, but it would more than likely be well worn and have a few of the stitches broken. A bat was nice, but there had been games with a stout tree branch when the kid who owned the bat was not able to play. Gloves were also sparse but were shared freely with the glove staying in play as the sides changed, normally after much arguing about whether the last out called was in-fact legitimate. As soon as the noise erupted from the empty lot, signifying start of play, kids seemed to just materialize on the makeshift field filling the positions that was either preferred or, because the arrival was late, what you got stuck with.

The guy before Ty had struck out and thrown the bat in frustration. Ty rounded it up and smacked his shoes with it as he walked back to the plate. He had seen the older boys do this and knew it was to knock the dirt from cleats, which none of them had, but it made him feel good doing it anyway.

"C'mon shrimp." The older pitcher from the other team called. "It'll be dark before you ever get to the plate!"

The other players laughed. Ty didn't like being called 'shrimp' but if he fussed they may not let him play. And, he wanted to play more than anything.

He took his stance and watched the first pitch go by low almost in the dirt. "Strike!", the pitcher called. There was no umpire and the five minutes of arguing did not change the called strike. Ty resettled over the plate and watched as the second pitch sailed by well outside as it received another call of 'strike'!

This time Ty didn't bother arguing. No need, he would lose. but he did turn his back, knock dirt from his imaginary cleats and then step back to the plate with a grim look of determination on his face.

The third pitch would also have been outside, but not quite as far. Ty stepped forward with his left foot squinting his eyes as he put everything he had into the swing. He connected solidly and sent the ball sailing well over the heads of the fielders who had pulled in for the little kid they just knew couldn't hit.

As he rounded first base headed for second, and seeing there was no way for the fielders to retrieve the ball before he made it home, he jumped up and down laughing and shouted at the picther "there ya go moron! Hang around. That ain't the last hit you will see Ty Cobb get in this game!"

(This story is total fiction. Ty Cobb, however, is very real. He started applying to leagues in his teens and became one of the greats of his day.)