Narrative About Baseball

The weather outside was perfect for anything. Of course, my family and I were thinking of doing something to do with baseball. It was just my brother and my mom with me though(my dad was working). Given that, I wasn’t sure what we were going to do. If my dad was at the house, it would be nothing but baseball. My brother decided for us though. It might sound like the strangest thing, but we were going to hit each other(no, not with our fists). My brother and I were going to practice turning into a baseball that’s about to hit you. This is pretty much when my brother can get revenge on me for what I do to him. Fortunately for me, we use tennis balls, not baseballs. Now I’m going back to how this all happened.
“Yay! You finally woke
I agree, so we get the tennis balls and get to work. My brother decides he wants to get hit first, and that’s fine with me. Once I’m done hitting him, he hits me and I work on turning into the pitch. We repeated this a few times, but since it was such a nice day we wanted to do something else. I ask him, “What do you want to do?” He answers, saying, “I don’t know, what do you want to do?” We always do this, imitating what Spongebob and Patrick do in one episode of Spongebob Squarepants. Finally, after repeating ourselves several times, my mom said, “If you don’t figure something to do quickly, I’m going to find something for you to do.” After hearing this, we tried to figure out what we were going to as fast as we could. Because of other experiences, we knew that our mom would say something like, “Why don’t you sweep in the garage?” Finally, my brother thought of something we both agreed on; wiffleball. My mom and brother would be on a team playing against me, like we’ve always played. After that though, we ran into a problem. We usually used tennis balls when we played baseball in our backyard, but I hit them too hard and my family does not want to get hit by the balls I hit. “Well”, I suggest, we could use these balls,”. My mom and brother agreed, so we just used these hard, small, yellow, foam balls. My brother didn’t want to get hit, so he let my mom pitch to me. Whoosh. We could hear the foam ball through the air as the pitch sailed over my head. Ball one. Whoosh. The ball sailed over my head again. Ball two. Whoosh. Another ball. Whoosh. Way over my head for ball four. “C’mon Ripken, just pitch,” I say. He complied, saying, “Fine. I’ll pitch.” He wasn’t any better than my mom. He threw four straight balls. “Okay, let’s get some different balls,” my mom said. My brother and I agreed since neither one of them couldn’t hit the strike zone. Then, we got squishy foam