Andre Otte

3/29/13
Sports Profile
Moore
The Seven-Year-Old Slugger
Jacob Otte picks up the fuzzy, yellow tennis ball and lets it sit in his grubby left
hand. He takes the plastic, orange bat and pounds it down in front of him like the pros
he sees on Saturday morning SportsCenter. Thwump! It gives off a hollow sound as it
connects with the dry, August ground. After setting his bare, size three feet, he tosses the
ball slightly over his head and, with deceivingly quick hands for a seven-year-old, brings
the bat behind his head to swing. The bat swooshes through the air at waist height and it
makes solid contact with the ball. As it sails through the air, he hears a roar from the
wind rustling the leaves on spectating trees. Not even his brother will be able to catch
this one. It sails way over his head, past the apple tree, down the hill, over the gravel
road, and into the Hazletts front yard. Home Run!
At four foot five and sixty-five pounds, Jacob Otte is the best slugger on the
block. Day after day he spends hours whacking the snot out of the ball while his own snot
gets smeared all over his face. His trusty brother is always in the outfield frustratedly
chasing balls into the garden or fishing them out of the compost pile. Jacob loves
baseball.
Its Saturday morning. Jacob and his brother are lying in their beds wide-awake
at 6:56. They stare at the clock in anticipation. 6:57 getting closer. 6:58. 6:59
almost there. 7:00! Jacob jumps out of bed with his brother nipping at his heels through
the hallway, waking up their parents as their feet patter against the hardwood floor. They

2
have to weave to avoid the stacks of hundreds of baseball cards that are neatly arranged
on the floor of their room. His brother makes a move and passes him at the bottom of the
stairs with the living room just through the doorway. The two lunge for the remote buried
in a speckled cushion and somehow the elusive Jacob sneaks his way under his brother
and snatches it up. He lets out a victory cry and flips on the TV. After an hour of
SportsCenter Jacobs pops in Sports Illustrated 1991: A Year in Review. He knows
everything that happened in the sports world from 1991. The Bills won the Superbowl,
the Twins beat the Braves to win the World Series, the Penguins lifted Sir Stanleys cup,
and Mike Tyson bit off Evander Holyfields ear in the bout for the heavyweight title.
After being inspired by watching Kirby Puckett smack home runs out of the
Metrodome, Jacob runs to the garage with his brother close behind. He picks up the
deteriorating, orange bat and a brown tennis ball. Scurrying out to the backyard, he
screams like a wildman and swings the bat over his head. His blond hair bobs on the top
of his head as he flies to the grassless patch of lawn.
With his brother out in the yard, impatiently waiting, Jacob tosses the tennis ball
up in the air, and with visions of Kirby Pucket in his mind, swings with all of his might.
He misses. Cmon Jacob! A shout comes from the outfield. Im trying, he shouts
back, dont make me go back inside! He picks up the ball from by his feet and repeats
his routine. Once again he misses and the bat flies out of his hands and sails into the
garden next to the garage. He walks over to retrieve his bat even though his brother is
shouting for him to run. He finally makes it back to his spot and slowly tosses the ball up
in the air, envisioning himself in the green and gray Motikos uniforms that his brother
puts on every Saturday afternoon. This time, he makes contact. The ball sails perfectly

3
through the air and into his brothers glove. Time and time again they go through this
routine, interrupted only when a ball errantly goes off target and flies into a bush or the
garden. But, when he suddenly realizes his incredible hunger, he leaves his bat, ball, and
his brother behind him, and scampers through the back door while yelling, MOM
MOM IM HUNGRY!
After dinner, Jacob and his brother escape the picnic table on the patio and take
their usual positions in the yard. Jacob pounds the ball farther and farther as the light
dims. When he can no longer see the ball flying back from the outfield, he runs into the
garage and grabs a glove of his own. A shiny black glove with gold lettering that slides
perfectly onto his right hand. He trades out the tennis ball for the real thing, a worn out
hard ball that takes his whole hand to grip. He runs back out to the yard and tosses the
ball to his brother who tags the imaginary runner that is sliding at his feet. Jacob hops
from one foot to another, rubbing the soles of his feet on his shins to try to keep them
warm from the cold grass. He throws the ball back and forth with his brother until the
fading light makes it almost impossible to see.
When they finally give up, they toss their gloves through the side door of the
garage and run along the rough sidewalk to the back door of the house. Jacob brushes his
teeth, scampers up the stairs and jumps into bed with blackened feet from a long day out
in the yard. As the thunderous fan blows the August heat out their open window, he drifts
of to sleep, dreaming of hammering the ball into the Hazletts yard, Kirby Puckett, and
the next day when he will hit the ball farther than ever.