Intro to ... I don't have a name. It's a baseball story though :)

March 23rd. Probably one of the best days of my senior year, if not the only one. It was a chilly, frostbiting, wind whipping Wyoming winter day. It was one of those days when you are glad to be sitting in class while your teacher drones on and on about things you are pretty sure you have learned before, but you don’t realize the comfort until you curse the bell when it goes off. Not just because the buses aren’t heated and the windows are frozen open, but because you are the oldest child in a horse rancher’s family, where the only other siblings are still wearing fuzzy muffs to school, and your job is to shovel the drive way. Did I mention the driveway is a quarter mile long?
So there I was, trudging through the snow as the bus dropped me off at my hike route. Jim Gunter, the plow man, had already plowed most of the snow from earlier in the day, but it was still coming down in sheets. Besides, the walk ways weren’t shoveled yet because my mother worked late at the hospital and my father undoubtedly had something better to do.
These weren’t the only things on my mind, see, that wouldn’t make a very good best day, now would it? Not to say I had better things to think about, because I didn’t. In fact, I think I set a record for myself in complaining about the general everything-ness that was inconvenient that day while I journeyed down the road. I even came up with a plan; I could possibly sway my parents by foregoing chores and saying I had a terrible day, which wasn’t half false. After all, Mr. Lautner had picked today for a random review of his childhood in Texas instead of studying Shakespeare’s intricate syllogisms and hidden meanings, and Miss Haywood’s “surprise exam” for all us seniors had really been quite the surprise. But as I wondered up to the large building we called home, -and I tried not to- , my plans sunk to the back of my head and I left them lying behind me in the snow. It was no use. The snow was so high I could barely make out the front bay windows. There was no wriggling out this time.
I slammed the front door open grudgingly. There wasn’t even enough room to get into the garage.
“Cletus,” My mother’s voice floated from the dining room. s***. She was home early.
“What?” I called, tossing my iced up coat on the steps and attempting to slip my boot off with icy hands. So, my boots had welded to my shins; great.
“Clete?” she called again nervously when I grunted. “Your father and I-” I wasn’t really paying attention to them. I had a dilemma here. I rubbed my hands together, blowing on them. Maybe warming them would make this easier. “…something you got…”
I lifted up my sweatshirt and tucked my icicle fingers under my armpits. Oh. Not a good idea. I ripped my hands away, reacting from the cold and cursing myself for not wearing those fuzzy gloves Olivia and Sam found so warm.
I looked up to find my parents hovering over me, apparently too impatient to wait for me to solve my icing issues. They weren’t too much of a help, standing there in the foyer as I blew on my fingers desperately. I imagined they found it amusing; they were both grinning ear to ear.
“…so, congratulations!” Mom said happily, holding out a paper.
I glared at them, not comprehending, nor caring to comprehend, their babbling. All I wanted was my bed and about twelve hours of much needed sleep. But they just kept beaming at me dumbly, like robots in a bad sci-fi film.
At this moment my fingers decided to join the fight against the cold, and suddenly I could feel them. They were tingly and hot, but I attempted once again to free the melded boot buckles.
“Ow! Shiz,” I hissed as my index finger caught on the clasp. I sucked the blood, trying to look as pissed as possible, which wasn’t very hard. The day, as far as I could see, was not stellar.
Dad frowned down at me, “Clete, have you heard a word we’ve said to you?” My head shot up, alarmed. What had they been saying? It looked important. It was probably my progress report. Miss Harwood hated me, I was sure, and I was convinced she threw my math scores, even though I was the top of the class.
“Clete? Are you okay, honey?” Mom’s eye brow arched. “Did something happen at school…?
“No,” I cut her off forcefully. Sam had been having friend problems at school, and ever since then she was convinced that I had them too. I didn’t, and I never had. She was paranoid. “No… I’m fine. What is it?” I asked, finally yanking my boots off. I stared at my prune-like socks, wondering why no one had yelled at me for swearing yet.
“Clete,” Dad began, face proud.
“What?” I snapped bitterly, nearly yelling. How many times could they say my name before they realized YES: that was my name.
“You had better read this,” Mom’s voice was soft and shaky, but she smiled at me adoringly. Her eyes began to water as I took the paper from her. Dad took her around the waist, looking overwhelmed. I was beginning to think I had two very mentally compromised parents until I noticed the name on the printed return address. A wave of shock ran through me, taking my breath for a second. Then I ripped the already open envelope apart to find the note inside; I no longer had any regard for the two choked up creatures before me. Could it be? Was it a joke? My mind raced ahead of my movements, imagining the words and signatures. No… it couldn’t be. Or was it? I stared at the letter, my eyes eating up every word. I stopped reading at some point and just sat, beholding the type work. I re-read it, over and over. With saucer eyes, I gaped up at my parents. Their expressions mirrored mine, in a less shocked version.
“It’s… real,” I whispered to them, not able to find any more intelligent strings of words or phrases. They nodded in unison, confirming it for my mind. Mom knelt down to hug me.
“Congratulations, honey,” she kissed my ear. “We’re very proud of you.” Then she sat back on her heals, taking my face in her hands. “We’re still grounding you, though. We don’t use that language in this house.”
I nodded, unknowingly agreeing to my imprisonment, not able to understand her. This was it. I had worked my tail off every year for this, and finally it had come. I read my line, again, again, again…





Mr. Cletus White,

We congratulate you here at the Lancaster Redhawks foundation for a great past three baseball seasons at Crowley High School. We contacted you previously, and would now like to welcome you into our program.
If you would please respond to us by March 30 of this month, we would be happy to include you in our 2006 team after your senior year. If you have and questions-


I didn’t read the rest. I knew all the information already. Based in Lancaster California, not far from the college I was attending at the end of the summer, the Redhawks were a single A affiliate of the Boston Red Sox, a major team on the east coast. If I stayed in long enough, I could make it to Massachusetts. They had started talking to us after the year started, taking notice of my career at Crowley. It was exciting.
All my work to be the best third baseman around within a 500 mile radius seemed to be paying off. It hadn’t been easy, but it worked. I was being drafted straight out of high school, and that was all I ever wanted.
“Well?” Mom half sobbed, sadly attempting to keep her composure.
I looked up. I smiled as if I had smiled all day.

You do a great job of showing my the main character's personality. The first paragraph really grabs my interest, and the rest kept it. I don't have any real critiques, I liked it all. Awesome job!