Are Giant Worms a Thing?

“I'm gonna kill you Thornwood!” yelled yesterday's losing pitcher.

He was standing a few feet away from us, slapping the aluminum bat in his hands like a cliché Chicago goon. He glared at me with a look that was part furious, part whack job and I instinctively took a step backwards.

“Uhhh, Hector?” I asked, hoping I'd misheard him.

“You cost me the game! You're so dead!”

Nope. Hadn't misheard him.

“Whoa Dude, chill out,” said Gary, playing peacemaker. “It was just a game.”

“This ain't your business Greenburg. You hit a couple of dingers, I don't got a problem with you.”

“I got a base hit in the fifth.” It had been a useless two-out single and I'd been left stranded, but I figured a reminder of my contribution couldn't hurt.

Hector took a few steps forward, seething. “There were scouts at that game! I went from being the winning pitcher in the championship game to being the guy who gave up the gopher ball to blow the season! I'll never get drafted!”