I remember waking up early that spring morning for fear of oversleeping. I barely slept for a moment; I was too excited to sleep. All I could think about was how this could be the start of something very good. I've been dreaming of this day since I started playing fast-pitch baseball. The varsity baseball coach wants me, a sophomore, to start a real varsity game. Say no to plagiarism. Get a tailor-made essay on "Why Violent Video Games Shouldn't Be Banned"? Get an Original Essay It was dawn 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 mother had scolded me because as soon as I woke up I turned up the volume on the stereo to Eye of the Tiger. I always listened to that particular song before starting a game; the rhythm really gets me going. I was wearing a new pair of jeans and my brand new college 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 on the way to school. When I finally arrived, my joy was evident in the form of a huge smile on my face. As I walked through those cold metal doors I could feel my head growing with esteem. Just then I saw some of my friends. You could tell they were in awe when they saw the purple and gold letters on my college jersey. They were even more amazed when I told them that I would be a starter on the team tonight. We went to a big school: no one with junior status played on the varsity team. Even though the team was starting slowly, my friends still couldn't understand how I had been chosen to pitch. I told them I knew I was this good all along, when in reality I was wondering the same thing myself. I threw hard and pitched a few good junior college baseball games, but nothing too special. The school day felt like the longest I've ever had. The baseball team got out of our last class 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 perhaps the most important game of my young career. In the locker room with all the older guys I felt a bit out of place. I had partied with these guys before, but I had never played with them. Watching these guys play was like watching painters paint or poets write. I saw baseball as an art form and these guys were the best artists I ever witnessed. Playing on the same field as them was a dream come true. After getting dressed, we all boarded the bus for a long ride to the playing field. That night we were playing another big 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 to me to pitch 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 couple of hours – I was hoping the rain would wait until after the game. Somehow I went to the bench and put on my shoes. I had to sit there for a moment and let the surroundings absorb. The smell of freshly cut grass, the bright white chalk, and the music playing from the speakers were all I could stand. I was getting a lot,.