This one goes out to all the ballers out there, grinding on the playgrounds of America and just hoping (praying) for that one chance. That one opportunity to make a play.
Nay, not just any play.
A sprinting, diving, full-extension, game-on-the-line-and-the-outcome-actually-means-something-and-you’re-not-just-diving-because-you-got-a-late-break-or-want-to-show-off-but-because-you-really-had-to-dive-to-get-it diving play.
That’s the stuff dreams are made of. Hell, the only real reason I still play softball with friends any longer is so that maybe, perhaps once a summer, a ball will randomly be hit to an area on the field just far enough away that I can’t get to it easily but close enough where I can still get to it if I put (whatever I now consider) max effort in.
At this age, I’d still even consider a half-slide, half-dive to be equal to this feeling. It’s great because it’s rare, sure, but it’s also great because it’s the same athletic excellence-feeling as dunking—something most (read: all) of us will never (ever) do.
Polar Opposite of this Feeling?: Watching the ball go flying past you before you hit the grass/dirt and totally whiff on the catch, letting not only your team, but your entire extended family down in the process.