I only tried out for the team to please my Dad. He had been pressuring me to do something with my life since I had been in diapers, and I couldnt handle it anymore. I showed up wearing my cheap plastic cleats, sweatpants and a Blue Jay's shirt my dad had bought in the bargain bin at the same time as the cleats. "Look at his gorgeous big smile! What a queer!" I hadn't even put my glove on and already I was taking hits. I had tried on my glove the night before, stood in the mirror and saw the way it looked. I imagined my body fitting to the size of the glove, my muscles bulging to the size of a gorilla's, grabbing the other boy by the face and smashing his skull against home plate until it popped open like a melon. Maybe I'd been watching Kill Bill too much lately. I snugged my glove on and jogged out to the infield. Nobody seemed to even notice I was there now, but was that better or worse than being ridiculed? A huge semi pulled up to the complex, but nobody seemed to notice that either, the coach just kept on hitting grounders as the sides of the truck folded out and hit the ground. My turn to field was coming up, but I couldnt pull my eyes from the truck, what was going to come out? I was next in line, come on... something happen already! I was up, the coach looked at me carefully, then drilled one my way. Movement! I looked up from the ball and saw men pouring out from the truck, in all black, holding guns! Country music blasted from the invisible speakers as they flooded the field and started shooting players in the back, the neck, the knees. The ball hit the side of my face with the force of a bullet, maybe it was a bullet. I flew backwards and slid on my back into the outfield. I couldnt move anything in my body, and i couldnt open my eyes, btu I could see exactly what was going on. The rest of the hopeful players just stood their and waited for the coach to hit them another ball, but the coach was lying face down, the blood creeping out from under him, exploring its new habitat. Some of the blood absorbed itself into the ground and sped downwards toward the core of the earth, its own life force pushing it deeper and deeper into the flesh of the earth. The last of the boys was shot, straight in the head, and the men sped back to their home, crawling back into their slimy cave. I regained control of my body when the last of the Garth Brooks faded away. The other boys were squirming around their wounds still spitting blood, and yet reaching out their gloves to catch the non existant balls. Never was I more scared or more thankful in my life. The entire field was damp with curious blood, and the only surviver was a gay looking first timer wearing nothing but a basball glove and the blood of his enemies. He walked to the pitcher's mound, kicked aside a crippled Yankee fan (who happened to be catching the same ball over and over again, his mind and muscles moving like a broken record. Time was moving back forth within his mind, his severed brain cord still managed to stretch his hand out for the catch) and raised his eyes to the sky.
Who knows where that came form guys. Sorry.
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