Home Doesn't Have to be a House

Home doesn’t have to be a house For me it’s the softball field. On the way, I stick my head out of the window and take in the smells of the sea. I bounce in my seat, thinking about the drills we might do: Pot flys, catching drills, bunting, batting or, my favourite, Practice games! When we do those I wonder, “Who’s going to be on my team?” or “Who will start the chants?” It wasn’t these things that made me like it. Although it used to be. Why I like them is: When I’m batting, I see the pitcher glare at me with something like envy in her eyes. I look at her right back through the holes in my helmet. Hearing the chants of my somewhat sisters makes me feel super-charged and determined to hit the ball. When I do, I run into first base like a cheetah, feeling the wind slap my face as I run past second and third base. As soon as my foot hits home plate all my “sisters” run out of the cage and slap my helmet, congratulating me. When I'm at a base though, it’s completely different. I study which way the batter was standing so I know which way to run, watch the ball curve towards the middle of home plate, then the ball is hit! I catch the ball feeling it hit my hand, not too hard but not soft, then yell “I caught it!” letting her know she’s out, feeling a sense of pride knowing I got her out. Then, just as fast as it starts, practice ends. I gather up my things and head to my Dad’s truck. Home doesn’t have to be a house For me it’s the softball field.