Page 34 - Demo

With all the balls accounted for, I dragged the old newspaper representing home plate to the spot we’d deemed optimal.
“I need a couple tosses to warm up,” Dad called over to me as I was donning my batting gloves. I stood behind the newspaper, offering a hand as a target. He chucked it at me, missing wide to my right. The ball thudded off the wall behind me, and I snagged it on the ricochet. I returned it to him, and upon reaching my spot behind the paper I was greeted by another throw, this one missing barely to the left. The third one hit me dead in the chest. Once he received the ball again, he nodded his satisfaction. I stepped over to retrieve my bat, which I had laid beside me against the wall. It was a beautiful wooden piece, with a lightly stained handle and a black barrel. Dad had gotten me two wooden bats the past year in Bellevue, each 34 inches, 31 ounces. This was the one I used for batting practice, allowing me to save my composite bat (which had the same measurements) for high school games. The all-black replica of the bat I wielded in that moment was, in turn, saved for travel ball in the summers. I always wanted to maintain my bats as best I could. You must feel comfortable and familiar with whatever you use, and between those three pieces I felt I covered all my bases. Laying the bat across my left shoulder, I squared myself alongside the rotting newspaper, assuming my left-handed batting stance.
My dad set a brisk rhythm, delivering the ball repeatedly in an almost mechanized motion. I foul-tipped the first one, knowing to reset myself hastily in preparation for the subsequent toss. Having found his stride, he let go of the next pitch only a few seconds