Gary throws a knuckle ball, believing I won’t make the connection. Imagine his surprise when the crack of a bat sends 5 ounces of leather-covered hell directly towards his head. He ducks, too late to miss impact entirely, too soon for my taste. He’s laid out, but not out cold.
I don’t drop the bat as I head in his direction. He thinks I’m going to help him up, and maybe I would, if he hadn’t spent the last year telling me “Be a winner; dial up your game to ten.” Fucking corporate buzzwords. He deserve what comes next.