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Mattymo · 11-02-2008, 12:30 PM

March 1, 1911

Francis, alone in his cramped apartment, picked at a luke-warm bowl of pasta. The sun had long disappeared and the late-winter cold chilled the air. He thought of what had happened that day, but more of what had not happened.

Exactly a year earlier, his mother had given him his first bicycle against his fathers wishes, paid for with money she had saved by making blankets and selling them after church. He knew it always pained her to watch Francis run alongside his biking schoolmates, who easily pedaled past him. She had also made his favorite dinner, turkey with mashed potatoes, while he and his brother told jokes to one another, at least until their father came home from work.

As his attention turned to his dinner, it hit him like a ton of bricks; for the first time in his life, he was alone on his birthday. No special dinner from his mother, no birthday songs from classmates, no acknowledgement what-so-ever.

Earlier in the day, he and Jacky, along with a few of the other guys, had gone to Hanlan’s Point Park, where the Maple Leafs play their games, and gone through some baseball drills. It was a rather warm Saturday on the shore of Lake Ontario, getting into the 50s, and he felt like a kid again.

They practiced for about two hours, everything from running the bases to batting. Francis and Oliver Tanguay, one of the older players on the team, went to the outfield while Jacky hit them fly balls. Francis was proud as he glided across the frozen ground, catching almost everything that was hit near him.

Batting was a different story. Pierre Luc Fortier, a big right handed relief pitcher, only threw straight balls. However, Francis wasn’t used to the speed of his pitches and had a difficult time making contact. They encouraged him and gave him tips, but by the time his turn was up, he had only managed to hit a few balls in fair territory, none of them reaching the outfield.

On his walk home, he had seen Helen, walking hand-in-hand with Jon. Francis crossed the street and shielded his face to avoid them. They had not spoken since he saw her after the hockey game, though Francis thought about her often. He had never felt like he had when he was in her presence and he missed that feeling tremendously.

Francis, tired of thinking about Helen, his mother and his all-around loneliness, got up from his half-eaten bowl of pasta and picked up a broom that was leaning against the wall. He placed a candle directly behind him, as to create a shadow of himself on the wall, and swung the broom handle like a base ball bat.

“I’m going to make that team,” he said to himself, as he swung over and over again, putting into practice some of the tips the guys had given him earlier in the day, “I’M GOING TO MAKE THAT TEAM.”

11-02-2008, 12:30 PM	#10 (permalink)
Mattymo All Star Starter Join Date: May 2002 Location: Colchester, CT Posts: 1,424	March 1, 1911 Francis, alone in his cramped apartment, picked at a luke-warm bowl of pasta. The sun had long disappeared and the late-winter cold chilled the air. He thought of what had happened that day, but more of what had not happened. Exactly a year earlier, his mother had given him his first bicycle against his fathers wishes, paid for with money she had saved by making blankets and selling them after church. He knew it always pained her to watch Francis run alongside his biking schoolmates, who easily pedaled past him. She had also made his favorite dinner, turkey with mashed potatoes, while he and his brother told jokes to one another, at least until their father came home from work. As his attention turned to his dinner, it hit him like a ton of bricks; for the first time in his life, he was alone on his birthday. No special dinner from his mother, no birthday songs from classmates, no acknowledgement what-so-ever. Earlier in the day, he and Jacky, along with a few of the other guys, had gone to Hanlan’s Point Park, where the Maple Leafs play their games, and gone through some baseball drills. It was a rather warm Saturday on the shore of Lake Ontario, getting into the 50s, and he felt like a kid again. They practiced for about two hours, everything from running the bases to batting. Francis and Oliver Tanguay, one of the older players on the team, went to the outfield while Jacky hit them fly balls. Francis was proud as he glided across the frozen ground, catching almost everything that was hit near him. Batting was a different story. Pierre Luc Fortier, a big right handed relief pitcher, only threw straight balls. However, Francis wasn’t used to the speed of his pitches and had a difficult time making contact. They encouraged him and gave him tips, but by the time his turn was up, he had only managed to hit a few balls in fair territory, none of them reaching the outfield. On his walk home, he had seen Helen, walking hand-in-hand with Jon. Francis crossed the street and shielded his face to avoid them. They had not spoken since he saw her after the hockey game, though Francis thought about her often. He had never felt like he had when he was in her presence and he missed that feeling tremendously. Francis, tired of thinking about Helen, his mother and his all-around loneliness, got up from his half-eaten bowl of pasta and picked up a broom that was leaning against the wall. He placed a candle directly behind him, as to create a shadow of himself on the wall, and swung the broom handle like a base ball bat. “I’m going to make that team,” he said to himself, as he swung over and over again, putting into practice some of the tips the guys had given him earlier in the day, “I’M GOING TO MAKE THAT TEAM.”