Yes! dearest object of my earliest passion, I command for ever the remembrance of thy first appearance to my ravished eyes, it calls thee up, present; and I see thee now.Figure to yourself, Madam, fair stripling between eighteen and nineteen, with his head reclined on one of the sides of the chair, his hair disordered curls, irregularly shading a face, on which all the roseate bloom of youth and all the manly graces conspired to fix my eye sand heart; even the languour and paleness of his face, in which the momentary triumph of the lily over the rose was owing to the excesses of the night, gave an inexpressible sweetness to the finest features imaginable: his eyes, closed in sleep, displayed the meeting edges of their lids beautifully bordered with long eye-lashes; over which no pencil could have described two more regular arches than those that graced his forehead, which was high, perfectly white and smooth; then a pair of vermilion lips, pouting and swelling to the touch, as if a. The pitcher became a thin, dark silhouette against a searing forest fire of a sun. I lifted my glove up, ready to catch a pickoff throw if the pitcher decided to try and catch the runner. Between the top of my glove and the bill of my hat, I tried to focus as the dark shadow began winding up. I began chattering, ‘Hey batter, batter, batter, batter, hey batter, batter, batter, batter…’ as he leaned toward the plate and flung his fastball like a comet. ‘Strike one,’ I heard the umpire shout out as I relaxed and looked away from the sun watching the white spots dance about as I blinked my eyes. The base runner moved toward me, defiantly kicked the bag and then moved back into position, slowly sliding further and further from the bag. Squinting, I moved my glove up again and tried to make sense of the pitcher’s shadowy movements. Seeing his glove high in the air I again started chattering, ‘No hitter, no hitter, hey batter, batter, batter…’ A stick shadow leaned forward and threw again,.
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