Page 8 of Ugly Duckling

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I should’ve felt elation that I was about to do something I’d always dreamed about doing.

I mean, I was stepping out onto a major league baseball field, and I was going to bat against Carl Sanderson. Carl Sanderson, the number one pitcher in the world.

Yet, I still felt nothing.

I was just existing.

“Ready, Rook?” the catcher teased.

Shawn Ortiz.

Third-best catcher in the league.

“Yep,” I said as I walked right up to the plate and waited.

No pre-bat routine for me.

I had no superstitions left.

There was no reason to tap the base three times, or only chew my gum on the left side.

Superstitions were for people that were worried they’d lose.

I’d already lost.

There was no going any further down than I was right now.

The first pitch came and I watched it come.

Strike.

Second pitch came.

Ball.

Third pitch came.

Strike.

Fourth pitch came.

Ball.

Fifth pitch came.

Ball.

“Gotta swing, boyo!” I heard my uncle call out. “For the fence!”

For the fence.

I stepped back and tightened my gloves, readjusting my helmet.

Swing for the fence, Daddy!

His voice was so real in my head that I looked out into the crowd.

He should’ve been here.

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