The first part of a writing I've been working on. This is the very first draft of the very first part of it. I hope you all like it/give some constructive feedback!
The Legend of Leelanau County
Summer time. In Leelanau County, Michigan, that usually meant one of the two things: cherry farming or tourism. Today, however, was not the case for me. The July mid-day sun was heavily beating down on my back. "The heat wouldn't be so bad..." I thought "...if it wasn't so freakin' humid out". It was only for a brief moment that the thought garnered my attention; I had a job to do. On my left hand was a black leather Nike fielder's glove and a baseball in nearly mint condition in my right. Today, cherries and tourism were not the job for Christian of Leelanau County, Michigan.
A nameless batter stood down range from me. The count was two strikes and two balls. Two well placed fastballs, one on the inside corner and one on the outside corner, accounted for the two strikes. However, a misplaced change-up and missed slider made up the two balls. Sweat was profusely running down my face in the hot sun, thanks mostly to my long thick dark hair keeping my head most annoyingly warm. Sunflower seed shells were scattered all about the mound and my feet. My left cheek was filled to capacity with the salty snack. As I stared down towards my target, I ejected another shell from my mouth and fixed my coveted and worn New York Yankees hat upon my head. I liked the hat tight, it kept my hair out of my eyes. One last time I wiped the sweat from my brow with my right forearm and refocused the intimidating stare I carefully cultivated at the batter. After a couple of quick pitching ideas were suggested, the decision was made for the pay off pitch - fastball, down and away. Planting my right foot down forcefully, I went into my wind up. Left hip guiding my left foot forward, I pivot my body and sling a fastball as hard as my body will allow me to throw. "WHACK!" came from the stacked logs of an old dead tree as the baseball crashed against. A perfect strike.
It was the last baseball I had on me. The elation of the perfect strike was quietly subverted by the thought "Crap, where did all of the other balls go?" I carefully tip-toed through my backyard, dodging where my dogs had used the bathroom over the previous weeks. As I carefully collected the balls, I gave a quick glance over my patio and at the backdoor of my house. True to form, my biggest fan, Sophie was standing there staring at me. She was a yellow-lab, with a golden fur coating that glistened in any light. At less than a year old, she was a puppy in the truest sense of the word. I waved at her with my glove hand and gave her a quick smile. Usually she just watches me pitch outside, but this time she was wagging her tail impatiently at me. "I guess it's time for me to go back inside". After entering the back door, Sophie runs to grab her favorite blue ball and brings it to me. I have no excuse now, she caught me red-handed throwing a ball outside and she wants to play. Before I get the chance to clean myself off, a game of catch with Sophie completes the ritual. And it was just that - my summer 2011 ritual of pitching.
That's it for now, but I'm fairly proud of that. I know there are parts that could be worded better, but I think the visual it paints is fairly humorous.