Inklings 2025

Another windup— his arm whips forward, and the ball is a blur, spinning, bending, coming closer. I will not let him beat me. I track it, wait, coil the energy in my legs. Then—swing. Crack! The sound splits the thick Miami air. For a second, I don’t feel my hands. I just see the ball, rising quickly into the lights, floating, holding the entire game in its seams. The right fielder jumps, sprints — desperate. It’s not enough. It’s not enough! I drop the bat, push off, — the line drive bounces in front of the outfielder. Success! But this is far from over. The Keystone calls. Coach’s arm circling. Keep running. I round first base— My breathing stops. The runner is flying ahead of me, headed home. A blur of hope. The throw like a rocket from the outfield. The ball, the glove, the runner, the dust— A collision. Impact, chaos, a desperate reach. An umpire’s call. Silence. Watching…waiting… Eternity in the 305. Then— safe! Little Havana erupts, and I finally Exhale. Motorcycle Pippa Yeo ’27 36