Bobby, the next batter takes his last few swings before stepping away from the on deck circle. Walking to home plate he can hear the groans from the spectators knowing he was coming to bat.

He stood in the batters box, and faces the pitcher. He bites down on his tongue. Nervous energy. Spits out the saliva, hoping to relax. 

The pitcher, nicknamed, Nitro for the buzz on his fastball, was much bigger than Bobby, and a grade ahead of him. The first two batters of the inning struck out swinging. Now standing tall on the mound, his eyes were focused at Bobby.

The first pitch, a fastball zips over the middle of the plate. Bobby stood motionless.

“Strike one,” called the umpire.

Bobby looked away and gazed at the crowd in the bleachers. Thinking this was his big chance, his moment to shine, for glory to finally break through.

The thought of a home run crosses his mind. Nah, to much pressure. He shook his head trying to clear that thought. Just make contact, get on base…

“Strike… two," the umpire yelled.

The pitcher quick pitched him as he was lallygagging. Come on man, focus.

He raises the bat off his shoulder. It feels heavier than usual so he grips it harder, white knuckle harder.

The pitcher begins his wind-up, staring in at the catcher. His clenched fist opens like the jaws of some great beast releasing the baseball.

Bobby, feet planted firmly in the ground, swings with all his might as the baseball approaches. He sees the hot, white flash. Pain explodes on his left shoulder with the ball bouncing up and off his batting helmet.

“Strike three. Yerrrrr… out!”

The other kids laugh and begin to chant…

“Bobby, Bobby, can’t use a bat. 

 Bobby, Bobby, couldn’t hit a cat!

Bobby, Bobby, can’t use a bat. 

 Bobby, Bobby, couldn’t …”

Bobby walks slowly back to the dugout, dejected. He looks up into the stands. His stepfather briefly meets his gaze before looking away. Bobby will never forget that expression.

He walks home alone, the chant continued to echo in his mind,

“Bobby, Bobby, can’t use a bat. 

  Bobby, Bobby, couldn’t hit a cat…”

Never, ever again he vowed to himself.

In his bedroom he pulls off his uniform and shoved it under his bed. 

He opens a book. He has read a lot before today and over the years to come, he’ll read much more. He studies and he reads. He works past all the doubt his peers and stepfather heap upon him. He thinks of his mother, and that sustains him, gives him the hope he needed.

January 20th, thirty-five years later, he stands at the podium. There is a crowd of thousands before him. A clamor of sounds and an array of colors like there was at the little league field all those years ago. Except this time they cheer him.

“Batter up, Mr. President,” his wife says with a wink.