So many things must occur in order for the hitter to live up to his name. Contact must be made. The ball must be whacked to an unattended area. He must become runner and beat the throw to first. Odds are always with the pitcher. Combine curveballs, splitters, cutters, and other deceptions and the layman might wonder, Why bother? But none of this is known by the bat. And when the “crack” of ball and wood is produced, it’s as if a fissure of hope has been split into the whole pessimistic world.
Wait, is this YOUR jersey?
Duh.
Don’t duh me. It looks small in the photo. Like, young Dan small. Perspective is a bitch, I suppose.
I guess I should’ve known that. Given your penchant for BASEball and everything.
Duh. Duh. Duh.
Sometimes I want to slap you.
Sometimes I deserve it.