Its Socks by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview
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Its Socks
Page 16
and fiercely loyal, waved banners woven from old laundry tags and chanted in rhythmic purls.
At the heart of it all stood Socks Seybold, the once overlooked left sock with a hole near the heel and a heart full of heat. His batting stance was unconventional; slightly twisted, with a rebellious curl, but when he connected, it was poetry. In Game 7, bottom of the ninth, two down, bases tangled in static cling, Seybold stepped up.
Could he do it again? The odds said no.
The pitch came; a blistering fastball from Polyester Pete, the ace of the rival Nylon Nationals. Seybold didn’t flinch. He unraveled his doubts, tightened his resolve, and swung.
CRACK.
The ball soared like a prophecy, arcing over the outfield where the wind whispered tales of laundry days past. It landed in the sacred basket beyond center field, where only legends dared dream.
Victory.
The Thread Sox erupted in jubilation. Buttons popped. Elastic snapped. Socks Seybold was hoisted high, his name stitched into the annals of sockdom forever.