You can still hear the echoes of the stadium cheers from the last time you stepped onto the field. Your career ended just as it began, leaving a nation speechless and gaining infamy. After having “retired” you now find yourself working as an “undercover” journalist. But you just can’t seem to let go of your passion and you find yourself drawn to the local batting center.
Standing in front of the pitching machine, you remember the basics of batting. Using your powers of perception, you read the curve of the pitch and swing just as the ball is within range. Just make sure to hit with the sweet spot of your bat. That’s all it takes to knock ‘em out of the park. Pretty simple for an old pro like you.
Of course, being good is its own curse. Some internet blogger happened to be watching and is now infatuated with you and begins to fan your flames of popularity. Of course this means that you are now the target of the worst kind of demographic: kids. They want you to teach them how to swing, hit the silly pitches they “invent” and make decisions that affect their futures.
Unfortunately, all this fame causes your past to catch up with you. Old friends reacquaint themselves as newfound enemies and their new life goal is to strike you out. Though they may be setting their goals rather low, everyone’s gotta start somewhere. As he stands on the pitcher’s mound, you tap your metal bat to the plate and see the fire burning in his eyes. The pitch comes at you with the speed of a fireball but the adrenaline you’ve built up gives you the ability to make everything go in slow motion.
You give them a rain check on their dreams but they promise revenge and you realize you may need more training. Fortunately, you just so happen to have an amazing coach that knows how to hone your inner strength. Apparently this guy learned how to train batters from Master Roshi as he’ll have you sing karaoke, fetch him a prize from the UFO machine and pay off his bar tab. Okay… maybe one of those wasn’t part of the training.
Finishing your training for the day, you decide to go back to the batting center to work off some stress but are confronted by a damsel in distress. Apparently her boss is coaching a game for her employer and he’s really got himself in over his head. You find out that the game is currently underway and they really need a pinch hitter. You say yes with the hopes of wooing her into a date. Of course it wouldn’t be a real game if the score weren’t 0-3, bottom of the ninth, with two outs and bases loaded. Homeruns are your specialty and they’re served hot and ready.
You easily win the game, but get less than you bargained for when you find out the woman is dating her boss. When you’re feeling this down, the only way to turn your mood around is by doing some foul training. You can always count on the crowd of spectators cheering you on to lift your mood. What? You don’t believe me? Wait, no, this is a misunderstanding. I meant FOWL training! We’re gonna race some chickens!