I was standing on the pitcher's mound, the highest point in the field. I can feel the breeze whooshing, wanting to blow my hat off. In the background, I can see trees—some with leaves, some without. The air is cool and crisp. It makes a shiver run down my spine. As I'm in my windup, the slow, cool breeze at my back urges the ball to go harder and farther. As it reaches the plate, I can see it's right down the middle. I can hear the umpire shout, "Steeeriiiike three!" As I walk off the field, I smell that smell that only fall can create.
Showing posts with label autumn. Show all posts
Showing posts with label autumn. Show all posts
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
Autumn
This post is by guest blogger Turner French, written Sept. 9, 2010.
I was standing on the pitcher's mound, the highest point in the field. I can feel the breeze whooshing, wanting to blow my hat off. In the background, I can see trees—some with leaves, some without. The air is cool and crisp. It makes a shiver run down my spine. As I'm in my windup, the slow, cool breeze at my back urges the ball to go harder and farther. As it reaches the plate, I can see it's right down the middle. I can hear the umpire shout, "Steeeriiiike three!" As I walk off the field, I smell that smell that only fall can create.
I was standing on the pitcher's mound, the highest point in the field. I can feel the breeze whooshing, wanting to blow my hat off. In the background, I can see trees—some with leaves, some without. The air is cool and crisp. It makes a shiver run down my spine. As I'm in my windup, the slow, cool breeze at my back urges the ball to go harder and farther. As it reaches the plate, I can see it's right down the middle. I can hear the umpire shout, "Steeeriiiike three!" As I walk off the field, I smell that smell that only fall can create.
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