ByAmanda Palleschi

Amanda Palleschi is a writer living in Washington, DC. Her work has appeared in The New Republic, The Atlantic, The Washington Post and others. Follow her at @APalleschi.

  1. “Strike one.” I looked up from under the rim of my Washington Nationals baseball cap, a cheaply made one with a flimsy brim and mesh skull. The ball fell to the dirt behind me. I’d hit a foul. I hit another. Strike two. Okay, deep breath. This was it. There were two runners on base, but this next hit mattered mostly because we were nearly halfway through the season and my own foot had yet…