His parents slept soundlessly in separate bedrooms and he hurled the new ball through the Christmas mist as if he could break the backstop's netting, throw so hard no air could hold it and nothing in the world could ever catch it. Even now, his hand holds the memory of baseballs.
One Christmas Wish:
I'd wish for myself the writerly skills of F. Scott Fitzgerald because he wrote passages such as this one, "His heart beat faster and faster as Daisy’s white face came up to his own. He knew that when he kissed this girl, and forever wed his unutterable visions to her perishable breath, his mind would never romp again like the mind of God. So he waited, listening for a moment to the tuning fork that had been struck upon a star. Then he kissed her. At his lips touch she blossomed for him like a flower and the incarnation was complete." And I wonder if I ever will.