Page 35 - Demo

after his initial throw, though this one I managed to turn on and rip into the wall behind me. It made a solid SLAM sound against the wood, and I imagined how nice it would have looked had I been outside—it was a perfect drive down the right field line. Having admired for too long, I wasn’t quite squared when the next ball arrived, and I barely managed to tip it back. On like this it went, my mind numbing itself to the sequence and instead honing on the small yellowish green spheres flying at me, before rocketing into their respective destinations against various segments of wall. Some I crushed, others I chopped or popped, and one or two I nearly missed entirely. The bat, whose handle I choked up on significantly in homage of Joey Votto—one of my favorite hitters to emulate—began to feel like an extension of my hands. The tennis balls, once diminutive and elusive, seemed to grow consistently in size until I felt as if I were swinging at volleyballs. The last four or five of the set I hit really hard, each whistling from the point of contact. One nearly took Dad’s head off, with him having to react spryly to avoid getting bruised. That one earned me a raised eyebrow, though still the rhythm was merely delayed slightly. Only once Dad tipped the empty bucket over and raised his empty hands did my vision come back into focus. Sweat had begun to trickly down my furrowed brow, and my hands rang with the satisfying ringing of solid callouses being put to work.
“Looking pretty good,” Dad said as began collecting the newly scattered balls. “You really locked in at the end there!”
“Thanks,” I shouted over my shoulder, having meandered to the furthest length away from him in pursuit of one ball I thought I might’ve broken. It turned out my hunch