Boomer struggled for breath as she wrapped her fingers around the chain link. While trying to recover her lungs, she glanced over her shoulder and felt the relief of being alone. She’d outrun them once more. There was no way she was ever going to be bullied into wearing that flannel onesie that smelled like half a jar of dill pickles was spilled down its front through the middle school halls again. They’d caught her once, and it took an entire bottle of hand sanitizer to get the smell off of her skin.
After school, she would always run here. The Sandlot. It was her private paradise. Abandoned for years, the overgrown field barely resembled the glory that had been. The brick half-wall that marked the home run dividing line was crumbling. Most of the red bricks were worn and split in two. The pitcher’s mound was barely a bump. The base path was covered in spearmint. Boomer was in heaven.
She wiggled her way through the gate. The latch was rusty, and one end was snapped off and secured with wire. Boomer didn’t even bother with it, since she was tiny enough to slip through the opening. And she made her way to the mound.
Boomer could hear the announcer: AND NOW, REPRESENTING YOUR BARTONVILLE BOUNTY HUNTERS… BOOMER “THE KID” JENKINS! She comes in with an ERA of 1.00 and the meanest 12-6 curve ball you’ve ever seen. Looking to make the final out against the visiting Bronze Wombats of Willow Creek. This could be the most pressure The Kid has been under. Will she get this final out of the game?
Boomer took her spotlight center stage. She grabbed the rosin bag and bounced it in her palm. The dust floated like an angelic cloud around her hand. She let the bag drop, straightened her hat, and leaned forward.
She shook off the first two signs and then nodded. She settled into her stance. Lightning quick, she unloaded a 98 mph fast ball right down the middle. Caught the batter looking. Strike one.
The routine started again, and she tried for the inside of the plate. Foul tip. Strike two.
Down to the final strike, Boomer knew how to finish him off. The sign was made. Her smirk was her reply. The set up. The release. And an absolutely filthy sinker left the batter swinging at air. Strike three. Game over. Series winners.
Boomer threw her glove in the air and waited for the mob of teammates. For two minutes, nothing else mattered. Tomorrowdidn’t matter. The future didn’t matter. There was no way to know that her fortune would be secured by trading a tiny pink USB flash drive full of pictures of the District Attorney holding double ended purple jelly dildos and wearing black leather Domme shoes. That was a future far away.
Right now, Boomer was just enjoying her Gatorade ice bath from her team, and enjoying the power of imagination.
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