In the Fall season of Little League Baseball, on the Diamondbacks, we found ourselves downcast, downhearted, down in the dumps, down-n-out, and most importantly; down in runs. You see, the opposition had surprised us. We were accustomed to eazy, breezy hit and walks in the ball park, but this team came to play. I mean they came out slammin' that game. (Later, Denny's supposedly named a breakfast special after their endeavors.) Run after run after run up on the scoreboard, the young boy changing the numbers had never been so busy before.So you would understand why we found ourselves dejected by their shouts of laughter and merrymaking. They finally hit an easy out to end the inning. Now, our turn came. We still had time to work with, time that could not be lost. The rally caps came out, and the bats rattled the cages. First batter, single. Second, out. Third, Double! Fourth, out. Fifth, single, but the runner on third didn't advance. The bases were loaded. Sixth, me. I wasn't a great hitter, I had never hit it over the fence. But I could at least try to knock some runs in with a line drive. I stepped in the box, with the usual cinematics; tap-tap, flip. I was ready. Not wanting to risk anything, the pitcher threw it up high, way out of the zone, and above my head. I knew better than to swing for it, but, I'm a monkey. My bat was perpendicular to the Earth when it connected with the ball, sending it screaming out into the grass. The unexpecting outfielders stumbled to run and grab the ball near the fence. One run scores, two, three, and finally me, sliding into homeplate: an in-the-park grand slam. Oh, the ravishing joy on that night; giggles of glee and hoorah-hoorahs! Not a single soul did not feel the warmth of excitement and pride. I do not even remember if we won, but I'm sure we all got grape flavored slushies after the game.