On the Edge of Something

"Strike!" shouted the umpire whose helmet shone as the rays from the light posts hit it. It's nearly going to 9 P.M, and yet all the audience from the surrounding grandstand cheered up as they awaited until the end of the 5 innings of Atlanta Braves against Los Angeles Dodgers for the MLB Championship at Wrigley Field, Chicago.

The whole stadium was filled with chattering as the batter Johnson no. 11 got out from the box and stood for a swing. He's about two meters tall and with a well-toned body structure. It's the last inning, and the offense is for the Braves. It's 6-5, and there was a runner at the third base. After so, a man from his team in the name of Greyhond no. 1 went to where he's from.

"Hell, man!" he started. Johnson was startled. "You got two strikes, and the last will be dead. Keep your focus on!"

"I'm trying, dickhead!" he even chuckled as he pronounced slowly the last word. Greyhond gave him a smirk.

"Don't get distracted with your cutie there, huh! Remember that whisky is much important than that." Then he back off, half-jog. Johnson? right. His sweety chick was right there visible in his vision at the VIP, screaming so loudly like her throat is going to burst out, even her companion look at her wincing. "Go, darling! Go darling! Go...!!!"

My bad, he said to himself seeing Jane at the other corner. She's getting into his nerve from the moment they march to the field up until he's now the batter, or even until the end. Guess that's how relationship goes, right?

He went again to the batter's box. I can do this. He looked at the umpire, his face was ugly even covered half of his helmet. How much more with his unshaven face and bald head!

He looked at the catcher, the face seemed to be fierce as ever. He's not terrified: because, he's much fierce than that kind of nasty face, though.

Then he looked at the pitcher whose face make him shiver a bit. Kirkstel no. 25... The man who almost made him strike out for the season. Not that he underestimated the ill-favored hog in their team, but he never met a pitcher who can use changeups and breaking balls that tense. Plus, his fastballs were even disturbing through the bones! Not to mention his fat-filled biceps and triceps!

But, gosh! His eyes will always made an accident taking a glimpse to his darling Jane whose full-packed cheer almost made him thought filled the whole arena.

I'll get this nice. I'll get this shit and make it hit to this nasty hog in front of me. Such imagination would make him motivated to hit this ironically-not-rocket-science ball. He rested the bat in his left shoulder blade, bended his two knees slightly and looked straight to the pitcher a fiery eyes. For a moment the crowd became silent, even the loud-mouth Jane.

At once, Kirkstel the pitcher raised his left leg so much he could fell the tense of the energy deep inside, and with fingers patterned to a deep slider throw the ball with his legs almost splitting out with large thighs. Unfortunately, he got out-balanced and turned out doing "Watch me nae nae." His butt slammed, straight to the ground and almost getting bounced back. Johnson, seeing this funny g.i.f, laugh out loud, even the crowd in the benches.

"Balls," called the umpire.

Johnson burst out into laughter, but the catcher and umpire never seemed so joyful, fearful as ever. The ball didn't get in the catcher's plate. Thus, balls.

Kirkstel became outraged, ashamed. He got up from his knees and get off the something in his knicker pants.

How sorry, big man! Johnson said to himself.

"I'm going to kill you, sloth!" Kirkstel shouted, pointing his gloves to Johnson whose eyes passing through him going to Jane who cheered so much for him.

"Don't get too much fat, jerk, if you can't carry yourself!" he shouted back.

"Hey!" the umpire beckons him. "No more trash-talking!"

For another time, Johnson got back in the batter's box, with a clear intention of hitting the ball. No more joking. I'm gonna hit the ball. I'm gonna make a homerun, or grandslam. Better.

He faced Kirkstel whose face became red like it was drown into hot boiling water, and with eyes bloodshot.

Oh no... He's going to hit me.

Once again, he raised his left leg, his body forming an "h" shape. He barely forwarded his raised leg as he pitched his fastball hiding on his leather gloves. "Die, bitch!"

Johnson focused on the ball, like it moves into a slow motion. He knows it's a fastball, with his eyes he can detect even how fast it comes. He put pressure on his arms, waiting for the right timing. And... alas! He swung the wooden bat and with a crunch sound the ball flew up high.

The crowd cheered: some say "WHOAHHH", some clapped and some screamed for joy.

Johnson ran briskly going to the first base even without seeing where the ball went. The ball didn't make it to the ground yet, so he ran for the second base, 'til the third base. "I'm gonna make a homerun!!!" he shouted as he ran going to the home base. And obviously, he ran with a joyous victory in hand and with a great smile. No need for the next batter — it's the last inning, 6-7!

All went out joyfully out of the arena. The Atlanta Braves had won.

Johnson, without a second thought, ran to the corner where he saw Jane cheering, but unfortunately he only saw an medical staff carrying a person — a woman going out quickly outside. He roamed his eyes, but no Jane was on his sight.

"What the f***, man!" greeted Greyhond. "You got us won. Thanks."

"Thanks. By the way, have you seen Jane?" he asked him furiously.

"You didn't know? The ball hit her straight to her face, man. Got knock-out so badly, and the staff took her."

That's why he didn't hear the loud-mouth shout for cheer as he got a homerun.