Tee-ball

A one syllable writing exercise

Wren plopped down on third base, her hands drawn to the sand that was meant for cleats. Coach Mel let her. “I can’t herd cats,” she had said to the moms and dads come to watch their kids play. Wren kept her butt on the base, which she knew was a big deal, so she sat on it, and claimed it for her team.

The dirt was hot, on top bleached by the sun into rough clay rocks. Wren scraped her hands past those rocks to red earth, cool and too hard for her to dig deep.

Thump! A kid from the home team whacked at the ball. Their bat chopped down on the tee like an ax. Wren looked up. The ball fell short, too close to home for Wren to catch, but three boys in a clump fell on it. In turn they tried to scoop up the ball, which kept out of reach as their mitts, far too big, knocked it here and there. The hands that they had free, their right hands, those were not used at all.

That was the last at-bat, so all the kids ran to home plate. They gave it a good stomp. That was the best part.

Now it was time for Wren’s team to hit. Her turn came, and the dirt went crunch with her steps as she walked up to the tee with the white ball on top. Crunch, crunch. The dirt bounced her up, gave her a skip to her step. She clutched the bat tight, clenched her teeth, and growled at that ball. She wound up, then swung! Pop! She felt her bat hit the ball, her hands and her arms jarred, but she held on tight.