AinsleyVery briefly, just out of the corner of my eye, I see it coming—the swift motion of a bat gearing up for a big hit. I know the motion well. My dad was a baseball fanatic. He kept a wooden bat signed by Johnny Bench, his all-time favorite player, on the mantle in our living room. As a kid, he tried his hardest to impart his love of the game on me, enrolling me in league games and batting clinics, even though I showed zero aptitude for it. Point is, I knew what it looked like to take a big swing.
And in the brief moment, I know what’s on its way with the force of several tons of pressure.
I close my eyes, holding tight onto Barker’s arm as I pull him down towards the ground. He was in that blind spot, unable to see the man coming straight towards us from the patio area of the hotel.
