Narratives

Poems

Welcome to Room 119
Mrs. Aronson's 4th Grade Class
Bowdoin Central School

Non-Fiction

Letters to Rebecca

ben

Imagine what it feels like to stand on a pitcher’s mound all alone. Your knees are knocking, there’s a jumble of butterflies in your stomach, and you can hear every single chant from the crowd.

This happened to me as a first time pitcher for my little league team. As my knees continued to knock, I wound up and pitched the ball, and the batter connected with it. The ball shot through the air like a bullet directly towards me. I couldn’t even blink before smack, the ball struck me in the chest.

There was no air left in my body. I could barely breathe. The only sound was my mom’s voice screaming from the crowd, “ Oh Matthew are you all right?” You can not even imagine the pain that surged through my body. I put my arm on the ground and pushed myself up. Slowly I headed towards the dugout.

I sat on the bench to catch my breathe. The inning finally ended and our team was up to bat.

When it was my turn, I slowly limped out to the batter’s box, dragging the metal bat behind me. The first pitch coming in from the pitcher’s mound was traveling at 52 m.p.h. and nailed me in the back! I bellowed in pain and dropped the bat to the ground. Fighting back tears, I made my way back to the bench. My coach sent in a teammate to pinch run for me. As I sat on the bench the only thing I could think of was pain. My back was throbbing and my chest felt caved in. Every time I went to breathe it hurt.

I was done for the day! I had started as a first time pitcher, alone on the mound and ended the day on the bench with my bruised body and my confidence shattered. Even though the day had been brutal, I still love baseball.
Whenever I see Tim Wakefield hurl a knuckle ball to home plate, I know that it’s going to connect with a part of the batter’s body, and I know that it is going to really, really, hurt.