Everything is in slow motion. You feel every nerve firing as the torque twists your body. Ligaments and muscles push and pull as your shoulders begin to turn, leveraging the bat’s heft as its sweeping arc glides around the fulcrum of your core. Slicing through the crashing wave of tension, you hear the wet crack of wood on bone, and your follow through is effortless. You watch the pus-matted hair ripple as the head rises like Icarus higher and farther, disappearing into the sun. As you gaze on, right hand moving to block the lights, your eyes trace its path into the left field bleachers. You hear it land with a meaty thud, as you are yanked backwards into the dirt. The full weight of what-used-to-be-Ellis Burks pins you down as thick, black liquid pours from the gaping wounds on his face. The goo blinds you as it seeps over your eyes. Gagging at the stench of dead breath wafting down, your last thought as it exhales is “...it’s foul…”
Dead. That's you. Starting over won't help, but you could click here.