Word count: 333

Strike
By
RD Larson

© 2005 RD Larson

As the ball hurtled toward him, George choked up on his bat. No time to think. Swing.

Foul. Relax. Just swing through. He cocked his arm. He took a deep breath and the pitcher wound up.

"Strike one," yelled the Ump.

George felt his stomach knot up. Guts. The ball spun off the pitcher's thumb and forefinger. Like an arrow, it spiraled toward George. He kept his eye on it and let his body talk.

Whack. The ball bobbled in the air and rolled foul this side of third base.

"Come on, George. Get a hit." He could hear his father's chanting. It made his gut hurt even more.

"St---RIKE two"

George took a step back. He bent over to yank at his foot straps. He took a deep breath with his head down by his knee. He could still hear his father.

"Batter up. Batter up. Come on, George, get a hit."

His chest hurt now. Maybe he was going to have a heart attack. Sometimes kids did. They did have heart attacks. George stood up, not wanting to see his father, not wanting to look at him. Nevertheless, from the corner of his eye he did see his Dad giving him thumbs up.

Okay, God, let me get a hit, he thought, desperate. Scared and desperate. He stepped back up to the plate and slid his feet forward and backward. Then he swung the bat up on his shoulder. He squared with the ball and nodded.

The alien pitcher held the ball out to him, lining it up with the target. George couldn't see his eyes. The kid reared back, his leg high: then slung the ball out fast and low.

George hit it. He hit it hard to right field and nobody caught it. Thanks, God, he thought, now I won't die but maybe he will. God knew he meant his dad. More heart attacks happen to men in their forties, he thought, running over first base and heading for second.