haunted_comedy

Ohtani watches even the balls he misses sail over the backboards of the stadium. Freezing himself after every missed swing for one tiny moment like a ballerina with a bat holding the top of her pirouette. Allowing tiny defeat to course through him like a vitamin against the infection of losing, directing his gaze upwards to what should have been a home run ball completing its imaginary arc, even as the pitcher slaps mitt ready for the next throw. Not yet. The bad swing must not threaten to bleed into the next. He disposes of it as easily as sweat that gently stings his eyes awake on the way down his baby face