Please stick with me while I attempt to paint a picture of a muggy August afternoon. It had rained that morning and the resulting humidity gave the air a almost gelatin feel. It was through this quagmire that I waded on my way to what would be a day of American competition that I would never forget,indeed it would be one of those rare events from my youth that would be seared into my memory for the rest of my life. The sun, mercifully, was absent that day as 18 young men prepared to do battle on that most recognizable field of play. The stands filled with parents and siblings eager to imbibe the fair and cheer the young men on. It was shortly after the start when I noticed her. She had slipped in that graceful way only she could. Unassuming and captivating all at the same time. My grandmother had come to watch the game. This should have been a happy event, and for a time it was. The game progressed as games of that age group do. High scoring and sloppy play. Until the sixth man in rotation stepped up to the plate. The first pitch went wide right with his bat chasing fitfully after. The second screamed inside forcing him to jump back and drop the bat. The third pitch is where it all came apart. The pitcher ground is heal into the still wet sand, transferring weight and energy as his body coiled. The spring gave and the balled powered towards the plate low and outside, he swung. The swing was wild and and just barely connecting, the rebounded with the force of the impact, but without solid contact that bat imparted a upward trajectory to ball without stopping its forward momentum. It sailed over the back stop and upon reaching the height of its parabolic trajectory rocketed back towards earth and right into one Connie Holthouse....