I remember waking up early that spring morning for fear of sleeping too much. I barely slept a wink; I was too excited to sleep. All I thought was that this could be the start of something very good. I had dreamed of this day ever since I started playing fast baseball. The varsity baseball coach wants me, a little sophomore, to start a real varsity game. Say no to plagiarism. Get a tailor-made essay on “Why Violent Video Games Should Not Be Banned”? Get the original essay It was first light on Tuesday and I was wide awake, even though I'm not a morning person. I was ready for school half an hour early. My mom had yelled at me because the minute I woke up I turned my stereo up to Eye of the Tiger. I always listened to this particular song before starting a game; the pace really pisses me off. I was wearing new jeans and my brand new varsity jersey, number twenty-two. Twenty-two wasn't my normal number, but someone on the varsity team already had my number, twenty-five. I have never been so excited going to school. When I finally arrived, my joy showed up in the form of a huge smile on my face. As I walked through those cold metal doors, I felt my head grow with esteem. That's when I spotted a few of my friends. You could tell they were impressed when they saw the purple and gold letters on my varsity jersey. They were even more stunned when I told them I was leaving for the team tonight. We went to a big school: no one under junior status played on the varsity team. Even though the team was off to a slow start, my friends still didn't understand how I was chosen to pitch. I told them I knew I was so good all along, when in reality I was wondering the same thing myself. I threw hard and threw a few good games of junior varsity ball, but nothing too special. The school day felt like the longest I had ever experienced. The baseball team got out of our last class period a little early so we could get dressed and ready for the big game. Even though it was just a regular season game and meant nothing to most people, I knew it was probably the biggest game of my young career. In the locker room with all the older guys, I didn't feel like I belonged. I had partied with these guys before, but I had never played a game with them. Watching these guys play was like watching painters paint or poets write. I considered baseball an art form and these guys were the best artists I've seen. Playing on the same field as them was a dream come true. After getting dressed, we all got on the bus for a long ride to the playground. That evening we would be playing at another great school in our district, Francis Howell North. This team was known for winning the district three years in a row. The more I thought about it, the less sense it made for me to throw that day. When I got off the bus, my stomach sank to my toes, my throat went dry, and my fingers went numb. The sky was dark and slightly cloudy. It looked like it might rain in a few hours: I was hoping the rain would wait until after the game. Somehow I made my way to the shelter and put on my crampons. I had to sit there for a while and let my surroundings soak in. The smell of freshly cut grass, bright white chalk and,.