Over Them Mountains

There was a time I could hit a ball a country mile.

It didn't happen until I was in my 30s.

So that sucks.

But I could.

I could hit a ball into the other fields.

Onto windshields.

Literally rip the hide off 'em.

Now I know I'm starting to sound like Rico Dynamite.

Flinging 🥩s.

My hero.

But what can I say?

I hit bombs.

I haven't picked up a bat in years.

Threw away the one I made in eighth grade not too many years ago.

Still not sure why I did that.

But it was time to put that part of me to rest.

Goodnight.

The thing I learned about hitting (far too late) is you swing down on the ball.

To create lift.

You don't uppercut.

Even though it looks like it.

You generate a back spin on the ball that just crushes it.

Yards it.

Down goes up.

Way up.

Armed with that bit of knowledge, I could still hit 'em out.

But not like I used to.

I'm ok with that.

I'd probably break my coccyx.

⛰