Baseball Diamond Short Story

One summer’s day in 2014, I borrowed my neighbor’s lawn mower and met my teammates at the batting cage. I began mowing down the weeds, while they raked. Others restretched the netting back across the top of the cage. By the time the afternoon came we had a batting cage and a real sense of pride. From that day forward, we began practicing every day, year round. We talked baseball, walked baseball, lived and breathed the stuff. We shared our equipment and made do with what we had. We turned ourselves from a rag-tag bunch of misfits into a

It was brutal work that required constant attention - the field was always a little too dry or a little too wet, a little too soft or a little too rough. Like an idol that demanded incessant sacrifice, I would wake up early to tend to the field, painstakingly hosing every inch, only too see my handiwork decimated by collegiate players hours later. Yet the work was never unpleasant - something about merely being in the presence of the field filled me in an ineffable pleasure, so much so that my fellow interns and I would fight over who got to rake the fields each day, lest we be stuck with the ostensibly more interesting task of throwing batting practice to the players. There was something magical about bringing the field back to life after a long day in the summer sun, and each day I did my absolute best to see that those fields received the care that they

As soon as I made my very first varsity baseball appearance, I knew that I had to be the very best I could be or there was never going to be a chance of ever putting on that white and maroon crisp cleaned dri-fit Russel number 18 jersey. My heart was beating beyond faster than it should be at my first at bat because I had always heard “Just wait you haven't seen nothing yet, wait till you face them varsity pitchers.” Players older than me had constantly been saying that throughout my freshman season and it kept repeating over and over in my head like a broken record. Although I had studied the pitcher and had seen with my very own eyes, he wasn’t as good as everyone talked him up to be. I was still overawed and very nervous about messing up.

When I got there know one was there so I had more time to practice. A little bit later there was a really good player on the other team practicing to but I think that he was the pitcher so I think he was seeing how fast I swung the bat. When I looked over to see how fast ball was going It was going as fast as a hummingbird flapping its wings.

My breakfast started to creep back up my throat as game time got closer and closer. I walked across the patch of grass behind home plate and was towered over by the 30 foot backstop with a huge net suspended from it. My bulging bag of equipment was beginning to make my shoulder hang. I walked down the steps into the cement dugout and placed my bag under the bench that spanned the entire length of the dugout. I sat down, laced up my cleats, and put my warm-up jacket on in preparation for batting practice. I stepped onto the grass surrounding the dugout to get the feeling of how wet the grass was. I dug my cleats into the grass and began my usual routine of taking certain practice swings as I gazed upon the press box in the wake of the backstop. Preceding the burn in my forearms, caused from the practice swings, I marched behind the dugout to the rows of batting cages to wait my turn in line. Pacing back and forth I knew I had to keep my nervousness to a minimum. I popped in a wad of Big League Chew and continued to

The pitcher tries to put me out of his mind, but he can’t because I’m 60 feet away. He may have the mound to his advantage, but nothing will stop me from achieving this goal. I assess the field. There are runners on all the bases, the outfielders are playing back to prevent any extra base hits, and we’re down by 2 runs. I smooth out the dirt where my foot land, I make it smooth and the perfect landing spot for my foot, and step into the box. Everything must be perfect. I take a deep breath. I must stay calm. In...out. I sway my bat towards him and back into my pre-pitch position. My hands are relaxed but ready to unleash the violence of a baseball swing.

By the time I was eleven, I dreamed of becoming a professional baseball player like Tom Glavine, a left-handed pitcher for the Atlanta Braves who was inducted into the Major League Baseball Hall of Fame. My parents trek one hundred fifty-six miles round trip to practice twice a week and that same distance for hitting lessons, pitching lessons, and tournament games. I spend hours in the car and make sacrifices to achieve a high level of skill. I accomplish these commitments because I have a passion for the game. When I step onto the pitcher’s mound to face a batter, I experience an adrenaline rush like riding a roller coaster. Also, I enjoy the competition and embrace the challenge each time I attempt to strike a batter out or step into the batter’s box to hit the baseball. This summer, I accepted a college scholarship offer from the Georgia Institute of Technology to play collegiate baseball. Now, I am one step closer to my aspiration of playing baseball

Clouds mugged the sun of light as the day progressed. Dusk filled the air on the baseball diamond where I would leave my legacy. Forth, was the championship game to be played, and the pressure of the starting pitcher, was not fazing me. In the zone, we said the Little League pledge. Jolts of excitement filled my muscles as I recited the piece that I know all too well. Warming up, I was controlled, and was ready to bring it. The game began with a bang. Strikeout after strikeout I fired, giving my all every single pitch. ‘BOOM’ went the glove after every pitch, whizzed right by the petrified batter. However, this was not much different for our team. Just two hits filled the board, I and my teammate Ian Keth. Scoring off of this was efficient,

He was bombarded with death threats for who he was. He was punched so hard he was left with a bloody seven inch gash on the side of his face. Even his teammates did not want to be associated with him anymore. Through this unbearable torture, he still did not shed a single tear. This story belongs to Jackie Robinson, a home run hero.Jackie Robinson, number forty-two, is looked back on as a hero that was an immense part of baseball;Robinson was known for the incredible heroism he showed in baseball and in his community through his fifty-three years of life. Using information from, “What is Heroism,” and, “How Jackie Robinson Changed Baseball,” The reader learns that Jackie Robinson’s heroism is shown from his fight against the social norms of an era filled with discrimination, his courage when people tried to hurt him spiritually and physically, and his personal and his professional sacrifices to be part of baseball.

I looked right up at the pitcher. He then pitched the ball. I looked at it again and the umpire yelled “Strike Two!” I went right into the batter's box again. I held my bat with all my might and crushed it against the plate. I looked up right back at the pitcher, but this time with a serious look. Then everything slowed down when he was about to pitch it. I swung as hard as I could. I thought I just hit a homer in so I looked up in the air trying to track down the ball. Then all I heard “Strike three!” I couldn't believe I struck out. I was devastated. After that I couldn't hit the ball anymore. I wasn't the best player on the field. I always thought “If I didn't strikes out, I would've still been good.” This is your story of how the once Mighty Casey is know known is just Casey. I'm not like a god now, I just a average baseball player

My teammate runs over from first base to second, as I hear my name called out. I get out of the dugout, as I walk out my coach urgently talks to me. He yells at me: “Just focus. Focus only on the ball.” My heart beating, crowd watching, and my bat up high, I see the pitcher starting to take off. “My only option”, I say to myself. I see the ball coming right toward the middle. I take a swing, the ball tips my bat, as I stood there like it was about to end. I take one of my biggest decisions in my life, as the pitcher makes a fastball up high. All of the sudden, the fear goes away. I have confidence. All I hear is the sound that the bat makes when it hits the ball. The moment I open my eyes, I see the ball going high up into right field. The ball hits the ground, as my vision gets blurred by my tears.

I loaded my bat to let her know I was ready. She started her wind up and threw a changeup on the outside corner of the plate. I locked my eyes on the ball, and swung my bat. I took my hands to the ball, and snapped my wrists as the bat hit the ball. As I followed through the ball flew over the first baseman's and the

While standing on deck, waiting anxiously to get up to bat, my team-mates and I cheered loud hoping that we would win. As I walked up to the plate my coach, Jacob Kidd, looked at me and said, “Get the job done.” That was not supposed to make me nervous or anything was it? I knew that I had to get a base hit, so I just got up there and done my best. After I hit, Danielle, Lauren, and Jolie was next; and I knew that they would do what needed to be done. Jolie hit a long fly ball to the right center field fence; however, she did not get on base because they sprinted to catch it. Before we knew it, three outs had already passed; we hustled towards the dugouts to grab our gloves and go back out on defense. I talked to Katie Grace Payne, our pitcher;

The author also briefly puts in the story of the New York Yankees' second baseman Chuck Knoblauch, who developed sports "shocking" while playing in front of thousands of fans, Knoblauch had trouble throwing the ball to first base, while stressing Knoblauch found himself reverting to explicit mode, throwing like a Little Leaguer again", as the author said in pg. 267 (last paragraph)

I was getting very nervous, because all three of us were hitless today. Okay, we need base runners, and we need them now. Don’t try to do too much, just get a hit. I thought. The first pitch was a fastball right down the middle of the plate, a perfect pitch to hit. My eyes got big, and my mind said swing, but before I could react, the ball was past me.