Here it is. I'm at bat. After the first strike, I called a time out. Went back to the batting cage and took several practice swings. Now, the pressure is on. I'm standing there and its just me and him, one on one. He's staring me down with the cold, calculating look that says all he wants to do is get two more strikes and watch me walk off the field defeated.
That's how I feel right now. There is a lump in my throat so big I almost can't breath. My skin is crawling from the hot rush of blood beneath it, and my fight-or-flight mechanism is kicking into high gear. Tomorrow is my weigh-in. I just got a courtesy check... and things are not looking good. I've got about 2 inches to get rid of to make the cut. However, I still have some things to try, things that have worked in the past. Its also middle of the day after I've been sitting around working all day. Maybe, just maybe, things will come out and I'll make it.
All I need is tiny piece of that ball. Just a nick of the bat to the skin that'll send it off this side of the foul line. I don't care if its a bunt, a line-drive, what have you. All I have to do is get a piece of it and I can make it to base. He raises an eyebrow at me, questioningly. Yeah, fuck you too buddy. This may be strike two we're looking at... but there's a whole lot time to catch the next one as well.
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