Sam sat slumped at the bar, dejected. A half-drunk beer going flat, neglected.
Ah hell, can’t even rhyme it like Casey At The Bat.
What should have been his glory had ended like the aftermath of shit hitting a fan.
Every year at the company picnic, the office boys and the warehousemen would play a game of baseball; it was the source of bragging rights for the year.
Sam had played minor league ball; the guys had counted on him to contribute, even win it.
He’d gone zero for five with four errors.
He refused to blame food poisoning.
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