Dusty Cleats

Dusty cleats shifting back and forth in the dirt, her hands wrapped tightly around the shaft of her bat held high over her shoulder and the sun baking down upon her neck.

She peers out through her helmet into the eyes of the pitcher attempting to stare her down. Like some old western movie the moments pass slowly as they take measure of each other.

Suddenly the pitcher’s arm twitches and she winds up, her throwing hand comes out of her glove with haste and in a flash that bright yellow ball comes barreling towards home plate.

Georgia holds her breath, she counts in her head and the crowd gasps, it looks like a nice pitch and her teammates on second and third hunkers down against the bags getting ready to charge home.

All of a sudden the muscles in her back and shoulder tense up and Georgia cranks her hips round and her bat swings low and connects with the ball.


She turns and plants her sights on first base, she drops the bat and her cleats tear away the gravel as she digs in and runs. Her heart beats fast and her focus is undeterred.

The last she saw of that ball was the reflection in the eyes of the pitcher as it passed over her head and then second base.

When she’s running round that diamond the screaming of the fans disappears, its quiet, except for the beating of her own heart and the rush of blood in her ears and when she slides into second base, gravel spewing from underneath her she knows she’s half way home.

She stands up atop that bag, proud, heart racing, mind swimming as her teammate’s rally cry echoes in her head and plants her dusty cleats back in the dirt again, the race is on and she’s hungry for home.


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