Descriptive Essay Test

Imagine standing on a softball field expected to perform at the age of 5. Even though the butterflies in my stomach were starting a war, nothing was going to stop me from stepping on that field to play my first tee ball game as a Little Tiger. Fans cheered, but what I noticed most was a little boy in the outfield picking his nose. Standing in the box, I was terrified; the field looked huge. I had never seen anything like this before, but I knew that the little boy was the person I needed to hit the ball to, so I hit the ball as hard as I could. The ball went soaring through the air like a bird on fire. Dropping from the air, it rolled to the fence. At that time, I knew I had fallen in love with the game of softball. I was smiling from ear to ear, I couldn’t believe I had hit the ball that far! Both sides screamed, yelled, and shouted with excitement. Was all this commotion for me? I rounded first, but I couldn’t go to second because my teammate, Kylie Leach, didn’t run. I didn’t know what she was doing. Sadly, the batter after me hit a ground ball to the pitcher, and the other team threw him out at first.

All game I was comfortable batting until that moment. Right foot in, left foot out, staring at the pitcher, my arms shaking, heart pumping I get ready to bat. First pitch comes, ball outside what a relief. Second pitch, fastball blown right by my waist, buffet strike; I just looked at it. Anxiously wanting to hit the ball, next pitch I swing it goes deep down the foul line. One and one is the count, next pitch I swing and miss, still anxious, and now upset at myself. The common two strike pitch is a curveball. With the knowledge of that, I swing at a curveball in the dirt: "striiiiike three!" the umpire sits me down. I was so upset at myself, but the following batter wins the game for us with a hit right up the right foul line to bring the runner from first to home.

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

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,

In my previous years I hadn’t been as committed to my development as I should’ve, and now wish I had been. I made a vow to myself after that game to get serious. It was time to step up as a leader on the team, and show everyone that I had it in me to be great. I couldn’t suffer another season like the past three: promising signs throughout the entire regular season, but continuous disappointment in the postseason.

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.

“Next up the right fielder Auuuuusstin Meeeehhhhrrrr” belows out of the speakers at full blast as I approach the plate. Feeling loose I ease into the batter's box sinking my cleats deep into the soft dirt where I can get a solid stance. Stretching my bat across the plate showing the pitcher how much reach I have tempting him to throw one in the zone. Weight is on my back leg as I slowly bounce the bat in my hands anticipating the first pitch. The pitcher begins his windup and I stop moving the bat and focus on the ball.

Hard work never goes un-noticed, and although I did improve, I had acquired the label of ‘outfielder’. The position that wasn’t home to me, but I was forced to recognize as my spot on the field. My first year of Varsity softball arrived and I made it clear infield is where I wanted to be, but my coach’s confidence in me continued to lack to match the level of mine, along with the fact the returning third basemen was a veteran. And the outfield is where I was sent, yet again.

As the pitcher scrutinizes the catcher’s signals, the angst of the moment can only escalate; a one way road with no ceasing in sight. He starts his motion, with a fierce confidence, knowing the game is controlled by him. I begin to perceive seconds as hours, realizing the risks that every millisecond emits. The baseball bat prepared above my shoulders gains a million pounds as the ball leaves the hand of my adversary. Thoughts of confusion, possibilities, and worry are quickly overwhelmed by speculation. “Is this traveling fast? Will it be in the strike zone? What if I miss my swing? Is it changing direction? Will it hit me? Can I dodge it?”. THWACK!

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.

No matter what team I was on I never gave up. I was so determined that my eight-grade year was going to be different. Sure enough, I ended up on the A-team in the eight-grade. I thought that was the most wonderful thing in the world; I though all

I walk towards my mom's white toyota where my mom waits for me. She has a grim expression on her face but at the moment I don't notice it. I collapse into the passenger seat and look behind me to see that my sister wasn't here today. I assume that her friends mom picked her up from school that day as my mom drives out of the school parking lot.

I took a long look around at the school hallway as I waited at my locker for my friends to show up. It was cluttered with excitable teenagers who were all ready to get the Friday over with and start their presumably busy weekends. At the risk of looking like I was being nosy by observing my peers, I began shuffling through the very minimal items that the metal, navy blue container held as if I was looking for something that I needed. Thankfully only about ten seconds had gone by before my pointless rummaging was cut off once I heard the sound of my name being called a few feet away down the hallway.

Jack was sitting cross-legged on the wooden floor of his tree house. He shivered in the evening air, slouching inside his hoodie, his eyes glued to the pages of his graphic novel. At eleven years old, he was a voracious reader and completely unaware that the sun had set. He had been using his flashlight for over an hour, propped under his chin so his hands could hold the book open. His collie puppy, Lex, had been patient but was starting to think about his fluffy bed and treats in the house. He pushed his head between the book and Jack, using his saddest face and even whimpering a little.

By working with girls with varying levels of athleticism and knowledge, I was taught how to be a team player who builds off everyone’s skills. I also learned how to continue fighting even when you are losing the battle. I learned many lessons from games. I think the most important lesson I learned is you should never give up. Never giving up is important in sports as you can always come back and win. In light of all my reasons I chose to play a full-time summer sport, travel softball, instead of going on family vacations.