Strike one.
Ball one.
Ball two.
Foul ball.
Strike three, I’m out.
I storm back to the dugout that’s not really a dugout but more of a fenced in bench. I drop my bat and my helmet as I continue down the line of sitting teammates, all with judging eyes, until I reach the empty end of the bench where I start to cry. I don’t participate in any of this half-inning’s songs. Something about hitting a homerun up an metaphorical alley. Two outs later and the team put on their gloves, spit out wads of improperly chewed sunflower seeds and take the field. Wiping tears from my eyes, my dad walks over to tell me to “buck up and get out there”. I sniffle as I pick up my ratty mitt and run out onto the field.