My Perfect Day…

My perfect day begins at 9:30am. I awake to a certain someone next to me, and to a wonderful, bright, sunny, 80 degree day, without a cloud in the sky. It sounds cliché, but after all, it is perfect baseball weather. After I awake, my perfect day continues with an elaborate yet simple, breakfast of Bacon, Egg, and Cheese sandwiches prepared by yours truly. (Everything’s better made from scratch…)

After eating breakfast outside of the deck overlooking the ocean, the smell of the ocean air draws us to the beach. The sun is nice and hot, and the water is as pictured in the movies - crystal clear and the ideal shade of blue. The water is the perfect temperature, not too cold, but still a nice refreshing relief from the hot sun. As the waves crash down on the shore, my day continues with a nice long stroll on the beach with the certain someone mentioned earlier. We walk for miles, but it seems like only blocks, picking up sea shells along the way. Once we arrive at the end of the island where the bay meets the ocean the view is breath taking. We just kind of stare at it for what seems like minutes but were actually a couple hours. But not too late, I have to get back in time to pitch for the newest franchise in Major League Baseball, the Honolulu Samoan’s. Because what’s better than white sandy beaches by day and baseball by night?

As I arrive at the cathedral-esque ballpark, it feels just like any other day. I go into the locker room giving the keys of my carbon colored hybrid Shelby Mustang Convertible, to the valet. I walk into the locker room and get ready for my big game everything is in order from my lucky socks to my hat from our World Series run last year. I grab my cleats, glove, and fresh unopened bottle of ice cold water, and make my way out to the bullpen to strap on my cleats, stretch and throw.

After my cleats are tied, I take a deep breath and look around at the magnificent silhouette of the empty ballpark in the twilight, before fans make their way through the gates into the stadium. I pop a couple of everlasting pieces of bubble gum into my mouth and I’m ready to go.

Once the game starts, I’m cruising along. After my first time facing the opposing lineup, there’s not even a scratch on the ball. Nine up, nine down, nine strike outs. Surprisingly all have been on three or four pitches, so my pitch count is still low. The second time through their lineup, and still nothing. Eighteen up, and eighteen down, and the feeling that is racing through my body right now is surreal. Every pitch is working, and my ability to locate them is unbelievable. Nine outs left until perfection and I am calmer than a kid playing in the back yard.

Each at bat, the same thing happens. Strike one, strike two, and strike three. Ten out of the eighteen strike outs have been on a knee buckling curveball that starts around the hitter’s nose, and before they can smell the leather, the ball drops to their toes. I’m closing in on perfection, but all I can think about are the waves from the beach this afternoon. Before I know it, it’s already the top of the ninth. I start off the first batter with a curveball legends are made of, clocked at 68 mph for strike one. The next pitch, a 98 mph fastball, on the eighteenth inch of the outside of the plate. Untouchable, for strike two. The third pitch of the at bat is a changeup, which resembles the fastball until about 5 feet in front of home plate, when the bottom literally falls out of it and it drops like a rock. Strike three. As the next batter approaches the plate, all I feel is the white sand between my toes. Before I know it, he strikes out. One out away from perfection and…
“Honey, wake up. It’s almost noon.”