I’m in a rut. Again with the eighth-grade writing. This one’s fiction, dated Oct. 27, 1983.

The World Series

In the locker room I await the opening game of the Series. I hear the droning voices of my teammates just getting out of the showers. I walk calmly to the dugout, hearing my spikes hit the ground as I walk. I am so nervous, but I am supposed to be named the MVP of the National League. I reach the dugout; seeing all the people in the stands makes me go back into the tunnel. I get my confidence back again and walk back to the dugout. The rest of the team is just arriving with the manager. He tells us to sit down and I do. The bench is very cold. Then the manager announces the liineups—I am fourth, as usual. The first batter, Pete Rose, gets a hit. The next two batters walk. I am up with the bases loaded. I am falling apart. One ball goes by, then another. The coach tells me to swing only if it is good. It is good, so I swing—and miss. The fans yell. I miss the next pitch, too. The next pitch is a ball by a mile: it’s 3-and-2, with the bases loaded. The pitch comes in, and it hits me in the head. I yell in pain. There is blood all over my face. The ambulance comes from the bullpen and they take me away. For three nights I am at the hospital. And then it happens. One of my old enemies comes in and pulls the oxygen tank out of my mouth. I struggle for air. I die within the hour. They convict the murderer and he’s sent to jail for the rest of his life.


The Tigers are under .500 for the first time this year. Waaaaah!