Dylan's POV: I dragged myself down the sidewalk sleepily, my baseball bat in hand, and my red hair tied in a long braid. I walked onto the baseball diamond, and slouched on the bench. "Why so tired, Dyl Pickle?" I looked up, the bright sun silhouetting a tall, medium-built, figure. It was my best friend Roman. He had grey eyes, ivory skin, and straight chocolate brown hair. I smiled, the sun making me squint my eyes. "Stayed up too late again," I yawned as I stood on my tippy toes, trying to be as tall as him. "Dylan, when are you going to learn that if you want to be a good baseball player, you have to be good to yourself?" he laughed as he nudged my shoulder. "Yeah, yeah," I moaned, as I stretched. "Come on. Coach is pissed at you, already," he smirked. I cursed under my breath, and I walked over to the pitchers mound, where my coach was standing. "Dylan, why are you late? You're never late," he sighed. "Sorry, coach. I'll try harder next time," I shrugged. I ran 15 laps around the field, with the rest of the team. I finished first, like usual. I took a small sip of water, and grabbed my bat. I squared up, and concentrated on the ball. He pitched it, and I swung. "STRIKE ONE." I shook my head, and squared up again, trying to tone everything else out. He pitched again, and I swung. "STRIKE TWO." "Dammit," I groaned. I closed my eyes for a second, and looked straight at the ball. He pitched it, and I didn't swing. The reason I didn't swing is because, instead of coming to the bat, it came right to my kneecap. Crrrrack