I was gripping the bench seat so tightly my hands ached. There, coming up to bat was my grandson, Eric. Only eight years old, but he strode over to the plate like a major leaguer. Come on Eric I prayed. Let’s see a home run “Ball”, yelled the umpire. “Strike”, yelled the umpire.
Now the count was full. ‘Crack’ reverberated through the air, as Eric smacked the ball. The balled sailed down the left field line. Stay in bounds I prayed, and it did. Eric ran to second base. “Atta a boy!” I screamed.

“This is so boring, mom,” Darva said to her mother. "How come I have to be here? Softball has to be the most boring game in the whole world. Oh, look. That’s Eric, Marvin’s friend. God, he walks like he has a stick up his butt. He’s terrible, why do they even let him play. Mom, if he strikes out can we go home? She asked, hopefully.
‘Crack’
“Oh, crap,” Darva said as Eric rounded first base.