Touche, Orlando. Except that I disagree on a few of those points.
There's always strings attached with that girl. That you allow her to sit in the stands at every game and don't let it bother you when she yells at the umpire when you get thrown out at first. That you don't let it bother you when she complains about not getting the call on the backdoor curve. That you don't let it bother you when she asks you if you have water everytime you jog by her on the bleachers. That you don't let it bother you when she tells you that you need to stop spitting so much because "I don't care if you're on a baseball field, it looks tacky."
And there are ALWAYS mind games with this girl. Like when you hit a walk-off home run and she let's you choose what dinner is that night. Or you complain about the ump's calls and she tells you to suck it up and go do your homework. Or when you complain about the amount of running in practice, she tells you that no one is forcing you to be there, and then she tells you to suck it up and go do your homework. Or when you call her upset on the bus ride home and she consoles you and makes you feel better about the tough loss. Then, when you get home, she tells you to shower quickly and then suck it up and go do your homework.
The only thing I must agree with here, Orlando, is the supporting of the dream part. That's why I don't mind that Mom tortures me with all this stuff
