It was the top of the third and our pitcher was blowing up. Walk, walk, hit by pitch, walk, wild pitch, double, single, wild pitch, walk. The coach, who also happened to be my dad, called a conference at the mound; before long, the umpire came trotting out, but it wasn't to break it up. “Your pitcher,” he was saying as he trotted toward us. “He left.” We all turned just in time to see him – our now former pitcher – drop over the centerfield fence and out of sight. The next anyone heard after that, he had moved to Phoenix.
Eli S. Evans has published work in many defunct literary magazines and a few survivors. Also, an old book, and a new book coming soon.