The sun hit my face through the wrinkled curtain, bright and extremely disturbing to the sleeping king of Bensonhurst, Brooklyn. The sun only meant one thing; it was time to resume professional batting time in my stadium. Dark grey shorts long enough to cover the beauty mark on my knee, which for some strange reason, came across as a mole, Yankee t-shirt with the name Soriano on it, and a beat up Yankee hat flopping down over my forehead and eyes. Walking down the cold marble staircase into kitchen to the smell of fresh vanilla and to the sight of stacked up fluffy pancakes. The culprit of these heaven like mornings stood right beside the sink, phone to her ear, dishes in her hands, and her hair tied up in a bun. “Morning Mom. I’m gunna go outside and play.” With one full nod from my mom, I jolt to the backyard to a roar of cheers and my fans awaiting the start of the game.…show more content… The Yankees are on top, making their way closer to the World Series.” I run to get the ball again, stepping over the knocked over car fluid that took the fall from my solo shot, and regather myself to another play. I throw the ball on the garage once more, it rolls down again, but this time the announcer’s voice changes to a heavy Italian accent and a man running down the driveway. “Whacha mah tomatoes!” I reply, “Sorry Vido, I’ll be extra carefully.” I try to convince him of my new idea of playing by rolling the ball back and forth against the wall as silently as possible. In this silence, I hear whining coming from the side of my garage. I walk over the dozens of balls laid outside the cupboard and to the very back, underneath the sticky fig trees, on a ladder there it is. A kitten smaller than a baseball with grey and black spots, winning its little heart
