Josephine Rowe

It was around 7:45 p.m., in the bottom of the first inning. This was the beginning of our spring season, my junior year. The score is 0-0. 

The clay on my shirt is stained from the previous game. I look at the scoreboard next to the blinding lights. Then I look back at the pitcher, waiting for her to pitch.

I hear my team cheering for me from the dugout. I hear my parents chant my name as I step into the batters box. 

I wait for the pitcher to pitch. It’s a good one, so I swing. I hit the ball to the center fielder and she catches it. 

The game goes on. Little did I know that the game I had played would be my last of the season.  

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