The significance of playing baseball

Professor Xochitl Tirado
English 101
14 March 2011
The Significance of Playing Baseball

As the pitcher awaited on the mound for me to come up to the plate. I couldn't help but wonder how much the bat I held in my hand meant to me, but more importantly, my father. I stepped up to the plate. Two outs, bases loaded, three to six was the score, and the hot shot closure known as Andrew “TheMachine” Garcia. With pitches of up to 100 miles an hour coming out to pitch. He wanted me out. It was his duty to strike me out. He had the look of a tiger ready to pounce on his prey and I was that. I had already stacked up three strike outs and another one seemed inevitable. It felt different this time though, I could feel it. The power rushing through my body, the sensation of grasping the winwas there. I had my father and his bat to thank for being into the marvelous sport of baseball.
It started out on a mild Spring day. I was inside watching television at the age of thirteen. My dad just came home from work, he never really did like his job. There was always one thing he looked forward, baseball. He used to sit me down with him to see the games. He told me on that very day how heused to play ball back in my college years and had his fair share of hits, stolen bases, and home runs. He also had occasional errors. Then I thought about the bat that was hanging on a wall piece in his bedroom and I asked why he had it there. After a long silence, he finally answered, “Son, that bat in my room was a memento of the last game of baseball I ever played. That was the bat that drovethe winning run in.”
I, in amazement was in awe. My father was a hero that day, his last game and he made the was the one clinch the win. Then I asked him, “Dad, can you teach me how to play like you?” Then with emotion and a tear running down his cheek he said yes.
Later that week , we went outside. It was chilly, some wind was blowing, the park was filled with green grass and trees. People wereflying kites, walking their dogs, and playing Frisbee. We kept walking though, and we got farther and farther until we reached a remote corner. There was no one there. It was just us two and hundreds of feet of field. My dad took out three aluminum bats and a bucket of baseballs. He took out two gloves out of his backpack. We warmed up by tossing a few balls back and forth. He taught me how tocatch fly balls, ground balls, and if for any reason diving to retrieve or catch a ball in mid air. I was enjoying myself. I smiled throughout and loved the sound the bat made whenever it made contact with the ball. After a good few hours of playing, my dad placed his hand on my shoulder and told me, “Son, you will be a great at this sport. Just keep practicing.” I never felt so high of myselfbefore, knowing my dad took an interest in me that day.
I went through school passing my classes, just like an average teenager. I walked home from school one day and I noticed the baseball team practicing and I decided to walk to the field and ask to play. It turns out that the season had already started and that there was really nothing they could do, but little they did know that that wouldn'tkeep me off the field. I made a proposition to them that if I could hit ten pitches of any kind, that I would be in the team. The coach nodded his head and put in his best pitcher. He warmed up and showed a succession of pitches that included fastballs, curve balls, change ups, and a slider. I have to be honest, I was a bit stunned by how perfectly he threw them and with such succession of thestrike zone. The catcher then told me it was time and I nodded myself and went. I was at the plate. I looked at the pitcher. He was my height, six feet, tanned skin, long curly hair, right handed, and this look in his eye. That look said to me that he could accomplish anything. He threw a fastball, I hit it. He threw two curves, three sliders, and three change ups, I hit all. His last pitch, came up...