My Cardboard Balcony

Their Own Little League by Belinda Roddie The sky is red. The grass is apple green. A girl swings a bat and catches leather on the autumn breeze. She tips the brim of her cap so her father can't see her eyes. He pitches her his best fastball. She sends it to the next neighborhood over. They go out for frozen yogurt later, just the two of them. They know that the Irish pub downtown will be playing tonight's Wild Card game. She doesn't like watching baseball because it reminds her that, at least for now, she can never hit against the likes of Bumgarner or Greinke or Arrieta. Her father understands. Twenty years ago, he got to the minors and never rose any higher than that. Chocolate and vanilla swirl, plus worn out mitts and home plate tricks, are what bring this pair together. Tomorrow, they'll try out the next park for practice. Softball teams call out the girl's name, but to her, it's not the same. Instead, Dad and Daughter will duke

In order to stop yourself from eating that cake, you must remember two things. The first, perhaps less significant than the second yet still crucial, is that you hold an enormously useful trait called willpower. The ability to resist, back off, fight, whatever it takes to curb your appetite for that delicious chocolate confection smothered in butterscotch frosting. The second thing to remember - and most importantly - is that if you so much as nibble a crumb from that cake, your mother will put you in concrete boots and drop you off a bridge. Don't do it.