Pinka's Play To Win The Tractor

Planted deep, a growing talented crop, climbing bush league minor dreams, living out young adult naivety recreational activities, conducting playing game business obligations, designed a century ago, when civil infractions turned into bloody conflicts summoning Betsy Ross needlework known for sewing everything together creating a fabricated united states message.

Safely, distanced, not close to the action, Pinka Melly peacefully guarded a small hill plot overlooking the dirt jewelry inspired parallelogram, covering perfectly manicured green grass. Sporting a leather glove gratefully accepting the fist pounding treatment, Pinka Melly distributed a message, “C’mon give him something to hit,” she screamed.

Hearing the distant request, ace reliever Tractor Tuckerson flexed muscles, delivering traditional pivoting rocker theatrics, seeing if bait would be accepted, taunting, challenging the opposing army’s full potential. Tractor Tuckerson committed, protecting his predecessors past two and a half hours of work mowing down the visitor’s offensive skills. Strategic blue printed advising ‘manipulate them around and place the competitor in the ‘L’ column pile’, suddenly vanished, sinking quicker than the Titanic.

Earlier, the hosts got things accomplished, posting a large lead during the championship match where the winner earns gift certificates advertising the local establishment, ‘Barbeque You’. Establishing a comfortable six run cushion, Tractor Tuckerson entered the spotlight, staring down two players occupying the corner bases, intentions understood, ‘clean up, it’s last call, encouraging Double ‘T’, 'let him hit the ball.’

Showcasing, the signature tater blast derby style paternal hurler maneuver, Tractor Tuckerson watched the results, completed when the number three illuminated underneath the ninth inning scoreboard slot, confirming his action. Unseen by the failed crisis stopper, Pinka Melly caught the tempting tease, only to receive, bad responses from those around her,”

“Throw it back,” screamed the next-door spectators. Quietly pocketing the complementary gift Pinka returned to the chicken bone bucket with the southern charming colonel pitchman imaging his brand.

Bad luck immediately settled in; Tractor Tuckerson could not find the plate despite the sixty feet six-inch distance separating the white hardened rubber and the games' trigger point. Walk here, base hit there, and soon the guests had a rally started, creeping back writing a victory plotline, haunting Tractor Tuckerson’s job finishing obligations.

“You are the worst,” the drunken outfielder spectator unleashed a nasty opinion and an uncomfortable feeling engulfed young Pinka Melly. “I have to do something,” she murmured, looking at the stitches being reminded about the recently awarded nursing certificate acknowledging her as an adult, “if you keep this abused sphere from unravelling, you can handle this,”

Filled with confidence, Pinka Melly wanted ‘save the evening’ acknowledgement, heading down towards the gates where the players exited. Observing all the disgruntled patrons leaving, digesting their cruel commentaries, she revealed the innocent token.

Not having to wait long, Tractor Tuckerson emerged, wearing sweaty gear and a tired reality expression, “Tractor,” Pinka Melly approached, “can you autograph?”

“Ah, Pinka,” Tractor Tuckeson replied, “still at it, catching opponents dingers that I fire down the hole.”

“You do remember me from high school,” Pinka Melly reminded, “I now have a nursing certificate meaning I am an adult and it is my duty to make you feel better.”

“Sorry, Pinka, I made things worse tonight, Landscaping Larry kept our grounds in fine order, and I gave those undergrowth shrubbery scrubs, way too many chances.”

“And they went home happy,” Pinka Melly travelled a positive path, smiling.

“Landscape Larry has the best weed wacker, it disposes them, one, two, three, before shining his diamond.”

Years later, Pinka Tuckerson grinned, admiring the stone flashing on her finger, dusting the rings, neighboring free stadium souvenirs, gracing the award shelf. Never regretting taking Tractor Tuckerson out of the game, allowing another future phenom, ‘enjoy the spotlight’ while the veteran experienced a wedding night game winning home run trot, confirming no turning back now,

“Honey, I am here,” a voice shouted.

“How was your day?”

“Landscape Larry and I drafted a few new ones,” Tractor Tuckerson arms opened, “and the crowd went wild during happy hour.”

“I love it when you experiment with what new pitchers serve,” Pinka pecked him, and the two let her simple gesture, purposely get out of hand.