Creative Control

Miscellaneous Mental Musings of an Emerging Artist

Strikeout Kings.


Scene: A baseball park. The manager approaches the mound.

Manager: Don’t pitch to this one.
Pitcher: What?
Manager: Give up the walk.
Pitcher: Come on. I can take her.
Manager: Listen to me. You pitch to her, she’s going to make you pay for it.
Pitcher: But she’s a kid.
Manager: Sure.
Pitcher: And I make more money than her.
Manager: Yup.
Pitcher: And she’s a girl.
Manager: All true. And if you pitch to her, she will take you for yard.
Pitcher: Bullshit.
Manager: I’ve been watching her all season. Everybody who pitches to her gets killed.
Pitcher: Nah. I got this one easy.
Manager: For the love of Christ. I don’t get it.
Pitcher: Don’t get what?
Manager: Why you don’t remember.
Pitcher: Don’t remember what?
Manager: You’ve already pitched to her a half-dozen times this season.
Pitcher: I what? I have?
Manager: And every time she hits you out of the park. And every time you forget. And every time we have this exact same fuckin’ conversation again.
Pitcher: That can’t be right.
Manager: It absolutely is.
Pitcher: Nah. Anyway. What did you want to talk to me about?
Manager: (sighs) Don’t. Pitch. To her.
Pitcher: Why? I got this one.
Manager: …well, I tried. Your funeral, Cruz.

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This entry was posted on February 29, 2020 by in Playlets, Politics, Sports.
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