It was the first time that I had ever hated the sound of my own name. "Tommy, you're up," the coach had yelled down from the entrance of the dugout. I was sitting on the end of the bench next to my best friend Alex, surrounded by a picnic of sunflower seeds, strawberry/grape Nerds, and my favorite flavor of Powerade, blue. We had been in the middle of our own game, playing tic-tac-toe on the dirt floor of the shelter using the edge of our cleats to draw a grid and place our letters. As usual, I was X's and Al was O's; I was up three games to one. Now, with all eyes fixated in my direction, I w