Glory

You took me to my first baseball game, but before that, you entered me in a raffle, a raffle to throw the first pitch. And I won. You took me into the back yard where we practiced for hours. Throw. Catch. Repeat. You never complained, you never said you were tired even though you were waking up earlier and coming home later. When the day finally came, you took me to the store for a brand new uniform, and when we got to the stadium, you topped it off with an authentic Tides baseball cap. I remember the excitement, the exhileration, the adrenaline, my nerves mounting as I approached the mound. They tried to move me forward to make it easier. You warned me of this, but we’d practiced, we’d trained, and we were ready. I turned and walked aback to the real mound throwing two balls just right of the catcher, the last— dead center. The thin crowd cheered for me, and I turned to them in gratitude. Raising my hands high above my head, I let their praise sink in. I thanked them for being there, I guess. But I did not thank you.