I've decided I want to try to hand write a page in my notebook every day (or as many days as I can) leading up to National Novel Writing Month in November. I need to practice fictional narrative, and small snippets seem to suit me well. Today's:

The angle with which the aluminum bat flew at my leg left a nasty bruise just above the back of my right knee. At the moment of impact the only thing I could think of was whether or not I was tough enough to stand in the batter's box long enough to walk in the winning run. I didn't dare inspect the injury for fear of discovering a protruding bone or some other ghastly, disfiguring deformity. It was all I could do to hobble up to the plate and hold the bat up, desperate to keep from shaking. Four pitches, maybe five at most. This pitcher couldn't strike me out to save his life. Visions of bravely stumbling my way down the first base line while my fat teammate trudged home filled my head as the ball came whizzing toward me.

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