A Baseball Story
Rising Star
Description
Vocal Characteristics
Language
EnglishVoice Age
Middle Aged (35-54)Accents
North American (General) North American (US General American - GenAM)Transcript
Note: Transcripts are generated using speech recognition software and may contain errors.
his batting stance was all wrong legs too close together, choking up on the bat. Too much. So, no power there. But most apparent, the boy seemed flat out, afraid of the ball, bailing out of the batter's box on any pitch remotely thrown in his direction, as though yanked backwards by a wind blown parachute. With the next pitch, he retreated again, despite its snagging the far corner of the plate. Come on, Danny, his manager bellowed. Lean into it. The result in delivery came inside, and this time the kid leaned into it on Lee to receive a sharp jab in his rib cage For his trouble, you fell with a thud. His manager, a tall black man with a pencil thin mustache and an equally narrow smile, rushed to his side and assisted him to his feet. He brushed the dirt from the boys back. You gotta be careful, boy, the manager explained. Danny nodded unenthusiastically. He gently nudged the boy back into the box. Son, you gotta start telling yourself, I want that single. I want that double right and get back on that horse and use the close stance I showed you after a few additional painful gallops, the manager decided to turn in the field for the lad might prove more fruitful. But after permitting ah, harmless roller to escape between his legs while stationed at second base, seemingly doing everything possible to allow the ball to securely find its way into the outfield, his manager position, the boy back another 100 ft settled deep into right field. Amateur baseball's graveyard for anybody this side of riding the bench who cannot catch an assistant coach. A short, stocky man who wore his cap on backwards and who, despite his daily exposure to the sun, seemed incapable of being anything but pale, directed a fly ball to him, sailing it high into the wind with all the predictable movements of a moth, Danny inched forward before reversing his mo mentum, one unsteady lope following another. Then he applied the brakes as though entrenched in quick drying cement. He leaned back, beckoning with his outstretched glove until the very last possible seconds. Onley toe have the ball fall of full 10 ft in front of him. As each successive swirling sphere followed, he waved his defenseless glove like a white flag. Danny, the increasingly impatient assistant growled while dropping his baton, donning a glove. Hold your glove like this. He held his hand toward the cloudless sky and your hand like this. He located it adjacent to the glove. Now follow the ball into your mid and use your bare hand to secure it. Danny stared toward the infield through his youthful eyes. His teammates fielded their positions impeccably as batted balls sprayed throughout the small ballpark. Although his perception of their expertise was far from reality, he decided he wanted to go home. He took a few tentative steps toward the parking lot, crossed over the right field foul line 30 ft from where he would usually sit down and wait for his mother. Interrupting his intentions, the assistant beseeched, Danny, listen up. See how I'm ready to throw, not be alive out there. The dead don't catch baseballs. Danny retraced his steps, is the coach lofted a towering high drive, which Danny gazed upon with all the assurance of a decomposing mummy. Standing in front of the chain link backstop, the manager blew his whistle, assembling the players. He clapped his hands, his perpetual smile wider than normal. Good work out there, men, but that's enough for today. Next practice will post what positions all of you are best suited to play along with our starters. So two laps around the field and we'll see everyone out here. On Thursday, he clapped again. Now let's move. A mad dash followed.