The score was tied, exra innings, and the bases were as loaded as coach's F10 pickup. Mikey straightened his hat, grabbed his aluminum bat, and prepared to end all that.
The weathered red wood bleachers weren't used much as parents gathered up to the chain link fence like they were at a Bruce Springsteen concert. Mikey was the boss, wouldn't accept a loss, and looked angry, determined, and cross.
The large pitcher dug in his black cleats, stood tall like a statue, and looked through the runner on third. Mikey stood to the plate, partially irate, ready to quiet this endless debate.
The first pitch sailed high, was propelled by a strong arm and a fierce California mountain breeze. Mikey locked his eyes in, saw the sherbert horizon, that a strong storm was rising.
The next pitch had a hitch and fell in the zone, an air strike landing in hard leather. Mikey was fooled, had to retool, wiped off his bubble gum drool.
There were dark clouds of doubt that all came out, the game was in danger of being stopped. Mikey saw the next pitch, started to twitch, and belted the red seamed stitch.
The ball sailed and flailed like a golf ball from a Tiger, skyrocketing out of the park as if it was a flaming arrow from the Byzantine Empire. As Mikey cleared every base with one untied shoe lace, they'd have to make place in the trophy case.
Looking back on that now, it was the best of times shared in one special moment in time. Although Mikey led the rout, with a heck of a clout, we would later find out, had a last name of TROUT.....and he hasn't stopped hitting them out.