OH! That's a Baseball!! 64

[Jilly]

Catch. Toss. Fall.

Catch. Toss. Fall.

Abel watched the worn baseball as it left his left hand, defying gravity for a few moments before reaching the apex and descending onto his palm to repeat the process. Except for this time; he repositioned himself, moving himself farther up on the bed so when he reclined his head would be smack dab in the middle of the pillow.

There we go, much better. But he still didn't feel better where it mattered.

He inspected the ball again. The white leather shell was half-absent, and what was left was mostly gray. The red stitching was finally starting to unstitch itself. It was honestly pretty sad; it was too much too late for this ball to have the normal life it waned.

But it was well loved; after all, a baseball's meant to be smacked around with a bat. Abel never understood the hoarder mentality some of these people who claimed to love the game have. Like sure, yeah, you got Jackie Robinson and Brad Lesley and Tiddly Humblefuck's signature on something, so what? Put it in a museum or play with it; if you truly loved the sport, that's what you'd do.

Abel looked at the signature all but faded away now. "Brian Peterson". He played for the Lookouts a couple of years, then kinda hopped around several minor league teams before retiring a couple of years ago. A no-name to most people, but Abel was okay with that; anyone's a somebody if they get to sign a baseball.
He laid back down and sighed. He started the gravity-assisted rhythm again.

Max. Fucking Max. Fuck him! Every day was a test with that prick.

"Well, *I* think-" Yeah, and Abel thought something else.

"I'm just saying it would be in our best interest to-" Yeah and it'd be in your best interest to shut the fuck up.

"Surely you-" No, and don't call Abel "Shirley".

Abel was dumb, but he wasn't stupid. He knew the game Max was playing and knew it well, but it didn't make it any less annoying to deal with on a constantly daily basis. It was even more annoying having to deal with his jealousy for a leader position that barely even got to lead.

Max was just one part of the equation though; this whole god damn team was falling apart. No one was attempting to pick up Jonah's slack, and every practice became a regular shouting match between at least three separate team members; Coach Oppenheimer even had to break up a near fistfight between a pair of underclassmen over something totally stupid. Ashley and Jonah seemed like they were the only ones who even wanted to actually touch a ball.

One of the juniors even had the audacity to say those words that haunted Abel all day: "Man, what do you know? You're just a catcher."

Maybe Billy had the right idea quitting when he did; at least he didn't have to witness such a disgraceful shit show. They were never gonna be ready for spring.

Abel just didn't know what to do, and it was making him mad. And madder. And madder.

And then Abel misjudged the alignment of the ball in the air; as it slammed against the ceiling and arced back down with a little more force than anticipated, it smacked him right on the nose before thudding on the floor and rolling across the wood floor.

"#&$#%@!" he winced in pain, clutching his nose.

...

...

Fucking Max.