Big chief rude boy smacks ball over wall

Current Science Comanches Softball team, I'm up for it this summer. Cans of Stella on Primrose hill, tearing blindly round the grid before the catcher catches us out. Sharp smack of the wood on a bat and the sailing of a hard ball through the warm, spring, pollen-laced air. The drone of a lawn mower far off, where the clouds drift. You can see the tall wire of London Zoo's aviary spiking into the freshness of the day with captivity. By the side of the pitch a barbeque sends smoke signals to any potential enemies of this dissident band of warriors.

Its my turn to sling my bat which I wield like a tomahawk. Scottish Alain eyes me evily and pitches with menace. Then the crack, the whack, the ball goes smack and all the fielders start running and the grass seeds float and for a moment times stands still. Uncoil, spring, I burst forth and run for a run, my fellow comanches calling me home, and I make it. The shouts go up, back slaps and congratulatory smiles all round and its a great day for freedom, a good place to run. Further
down the field some urban dwellers are flying kites. Everyone here today seems so real to me, the
scruffy dogs trotting between the flower beds, the toddlers on the tiniest of bicycles, everything out there is nice in my head.

Mike goes in for the next shot, swings the bat casually, rude boy that he is, and I don't think I've ever seen something soar so sweetly high
in the stillness of a glorious day. I need nothing else except this eternal moment of elation, the leaping bubbles of excitement and passion pulling me into the pale blue sky.