Confessions of a Teenaged Writer

The Final Pitch, Final Swing

Final pitch. Final swing of the bat.

And the score reads 8-4. One team doubled the other. A roaring cheer comes from behind third base dugout; player yell and celebrate and grin and jump around and are estastic because they get to go to the championship game.

We are the other team.

The feeling is something that can't be placed into words. It was supposed to be us that won. We deserved to be the ones cheering but instead we are the ones crying. I sit in the team circle and try to hold back the tears. I know how much the girls all wanted this, and I wanted nothing more than a state championship for these girls. My family.

Everyone's face was trembling, not wanting to be the first to crack. It was heartbreaking. No... It was worse than that. Once the talk was done, it was then that waterworks started.

My cousin, our shortstop player, doesn't cry. Ever, unless it's a big reason. But she did tonight, as she should have been. I think I might have been crying for her more than I was crying for the team. If I could give up my own happiness, I would have on the spot just to put a victory smile on Taylor's face.

No one knew the right thing to say, and no one knew what to do. Not even a loving hug would have made the players feel better. Everyone had dreamed for this during the whole season and now that dream is gone.

Gone with one last pitch. One last swing.