The pitcher had a death grip on the ball in his right hand. His fingers were tinted from the dirt and sand of the field, his fingernails an outline of black soil. The sweat dripped down his forehead which was shaded by his navy colored hat, a white "S" embroidered on the front.

I shifted my right foot in the dirt, making sure my left foot was out of the white box. I wasn't ready to take on this pitch just yet. It was the bottom of the ninth, our team down by three runs. The bases were loaded and it was ultimately up to me to decide my team's fate.

I saw Pablo on first base out of the corner of my eyes, bouncing from his knees in anticipation of what would happen next. With adrenaline pumping through my veins, I planted both feet inside of the white box. I could hear my teammates cheering through the crowd, but I stayed focused on the pitcher who was starting to wind his arm back.

With my breathing starting to rapidly increase, part of that adrenaline, I brought my bat back farther, ready to swing at the strike I knew he was going to throw. Although it was night time, the sun set and the lamp lights on, I could feel the sweat dribbling down my spine.

In one quick movement, I brought my left foot up and swung the bat with furious intent, the sound of the ball cracking against the bat. I heard my coach near third base yell something, but I kept running. I ran as hard as I have all game, making the round to second base as Samuel, the first base coach, swung his arms in a circular motion towards the second bag.

I couldn't tell what was happening until I looked over at the third base coach, his arms shot straight up towards the sky in tight fists, a smile wider than the Atlantic Ocean plastered on his sweaty face. I had hit a grand slam in the bottom of the ninth, with three balls and two strikes prior to my hit. Was it pure luck?

I approached home plate and stomped both feet on the pale dirt covered diamond, my teammates bombarding me with hugs and punches to the chest. My coach ran over with the Gatorade container, dumping it on all of us, but mainly me. I let the cold drink rush down my uniform, cooling off my body temperature which was probably close to being feverish. Pablo gave me a smack on my lower back, the team starting to disperse from around me.

"Great play, man," Jared said while passing me to get to the dugout. I smiled and nodded my head at his comment, barely able to breathe from running the bases. I'm sure I looked visibly and physically drained.

Suddenly, the pitcher who threw my final pitch approached me inbetween home plate and the mound. His face was bloodshot red and he didn't have his hat on anymore.

"Yo, kid, you weren't supposed to fucking hit the ball like that. Everybody strikes out when I throw that pitch!" He raised his deep voice so I could hear him over the cheering. He got closer to me, but I remained tall and kept my composure cool.

I could understand his anger because all of us were under the blistering sun before night fell just a half hour ago, but this is baseball, and if you can't even handle a loss you shouldn't be wearing a uniform.

"Hey man, I can't help what happened," I said in an attempt to calm him down, my breath shaky as I tried to catch it. Instead, he bit his bottom lip back and shook his head, throwing his clenched fist towards my left cheek. The impact caused me to fall backwards, his limp-looking arms obviously stronger than they appeared. One of my teammates caught me and made sure I could stand by myself, which I could, and he immediately rushed inbetween me and the angry pitcher.

"Should have been our game, asshole," the pitcher said over my teammate as he unwillingly walked back to his own dugout. Some of his teammates were pulling him back as I saw the anger in his eyes over such a normal thing in baseball. His coach and mine rushed over to make sure I was okay, and I was. My coach was babbling some swear words under his breath to the opposing team's head coach, both of their faces resembling tomatoes from the pool of boiling blood behind their skin.

My cheek was throbbing but I was used to getting beat up. I was used to fighting. It was something my parents encouraged from a young age, and more often than not I wished I was raised differently.

"I'm fine, I'm fine," I told the coaches and my teammates once more, blinking to clear the blur in my eyes from sweat and uncontrollable tears due to the punch. "Let's just get outta here," I said again while walking through the crowd of sweaty players and umpires who were concerned about me. I didn't care what kind of chaos was happening behind me, I just wanted to get under the dugout where I could regain my full balance and vision. Most importantly, I wanted to go home.

Inside the dugout, the ball girl sat on the bench in the corner with a blunt expression on her face. I walked over to the water cooler where she was sitting, throwing a towel over my shoulder as I filled up my cup with water, my cheek feeling hot and swollen.

"You alright?" I asked her, glancing her way.
She nodded slowly and fidgeted with the glove set in her lap, "I'm fine, thanks Orion."

I shrugged at her response and chugged my water down as fast as I could, filling the cup up again.

"Are you okay?" Her quiet voice asked me while she seemed to be studying my cheek which got punched a few minutes prior. She couldn't have missed that.

"Yeah," I said between gulps, "Some people are just immature."

She seemed to light up a bit when I said that, shifting her body to face me as she tucked her dirty-blond strands behind her ears. Her ponytail was messily slumped over her shoulder.

"I know what that's like, I'm glad you're okay. You're a real good player. My little brother looks up to you," she said in a sweet voice, smiling at the end. I couldn't help but smile back, thinking that someone actually looks up to me as an athlete.

Without waiting for my teammates, I said goodbye to the ball girl and quickly packed my sports bag to leave. She stayed in the dugout as I walked down the sidewalk, glancing back occasionally. Her position was unchanged.

The ball girls are usually in middle school or freshman in our high school, which doesn't seem like a very good idea, considering our best pitcher can throw up to 85 mph and some hits are far beyond high school years. Sometimes I'm not even prepared for the hits, let alone a delicate girl such as herself. I've been playing since I could hold a bat in my two hands, and throughout the years I've built my credibility quite a lot. I'm a good teammate, a great player, and a phenomenal batter. Set me on a baseball field and I'll dominate the whole thing.

My home life, however, is a different story. My family doesn't make a lot of money. I usually don't like going home at the end of practices and games because my parents are drunk or high, their funds pouring down the alcohol and drug industries' throats. My younger brother, Devian, deals drugs with a gang down town. He's only fourteen, probably the youngest person in the business. My twin sister, Aspen, doesn't do much and keeps to herself. It's hard to get through to her so I spend most of my time with Devian, or alone.
Mostly alone.

Our household takes no shit, and we were raised to fight for what we love.
For me, that's a blessing and a curse.