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His father stood, watching as he came up to bat. The little boy stepped up to the plate, tapping the bat to the rubber a few times. This would be the time, he would hit that ball, he would show them all. The catcher pounded his glove, dropped his hand, and flashed two fingers between his legs. The pitcher nodded as he griped the ball firmly along the seams. The umpire bent down, the catcher held up his glove, and little Stan stepped into the box. The pitcher stepped back, placing his foot on the rubber, blocking out the cheers of parents and the constant heckling from the runner on second. Stan focused, tightening his grip on the bat. The pitcher took a quick glance, rocked back, and fired. Fastball, down the middle. Frightened, Stan stepped back.

"Strike one!"

His farther turned, throwing his hat into the dirt. Swearing under his breath he stormed off. How could his son be such a pansy? Hadn’t he practiced enough with him? He was glad he’d thrown those balls at that little twit the other day, at least the little disgrace had a reason to run then. But no, now, down by one run in the top of the ninth his son was up to bat with one out. And despite his protests the coach decided to keep the worthless kid in the game. Why should the coach care more about the kid than winning? The kid was eight years old, he should learn that competition isn’t just about having fun.

Stan walked back up to the plate, tapped the bat on the rubber, and brought the bat up to his shoulder. He hadn’t seen his father leave, he hadn’t even noticed him at the game. He was going to hit the ball this time, and he would show his father. The catcher flashed three fingers between his legs. The pitcher nodded. Then quickly turned and threw the ball to second, but it tipped off the second baseman’s glove and went into the outfield. The center fielder, luckily playing shallow, palmed the ball, threw it, nearly missing the out at third. The pitcher tossed the rosin bag to the ground, a little puff rising as it hit. Crossing his fingers over the seam, he rocked again, and fired. High and outside, but Stan swung.

"Strike two!"

Stan backed off the plate, tapping the bat against his cleats, imitating his favorite player. He was going to hit the ball this time. He was oblivious to his coach and his encouragement, or the screaming fans that egged him on despite knowing he would undoubtedly miss again. The catcher bent down, two fingers between his legs again. The pitcher nodded in agreement for a rare third time in a row. Stan was intent, his fingers pulsating as his grip tightened even more on the bat. He was going to hit the ball. The umpire bent down and the pitcher fired. Fast ball, a little bit low to the left. Stan swung, the sound of clanging metal filled the air. Stan dropped the bat, taking off for first. The ball was a blooper over the pitcher, dropping short of second. The shortstop charged, caught the ball, and through to first. His father, hearing the commotion of the crowd turned to find his son running to first. So the kid finally hit the ball, no doubt thanks to all the practice he had put the kid through.

"Out!"

His father stood in amazement. The coach was actually congratulating the kid. And the entire team was celebrating. So what if the kid had hit the ball? The kid was thrown out at first, and that was just as bad.

Yeah, this was more of just me getting something written more than anything else.