“Just one more pitch, mom!” said Dexter as he chocked up with his bat.
“One more! Then, I have to make lunch,” said mom. She wounded up her pitching arm and threw, a fast ball. Dexter swung and POW ! He hit the ball way, way, way up into the air. Then, PLOP . It landed in the next yard.
“Mom!” said Dexter. “That was my last ball!”
“I’ll pick up some more tomorrow, dear,” said mom as she kissed Dexter’s forehead. “What do you want for lunch?”
“I’m not hungry,”. Mom left the backyard as Dexter sat down in the grass. He loved baseball. Everyone said he would probably grow up to play on the New York Yankees. But he was too young to even play on a little league team. Eight years old isn’t too young but you had to be at least ten to play. He couldn’t even just practice on a field without being asked his age. Did it really matter, anyway? But his backyard became his field. And his mother, the pitcher. He brother, the catcher. His father, nothing. How he missed his father. Why did he leave mom? he always wondered.