The Colonial Era, Section 17

"Come on Johnny! You can hit this!" George Washington shouted. It was the bottom of the ninth, and the Americans were down 10-3. The British had decided to pit all their hopes and dreams of winning the war against "those Yankee rebels pfhargleon lohapsanafti butter for my catfish dish alingringding!" (in the words of George III) on a game that had not yet been invented. To solve this problem, the quick-thinking Americans had created a time machine and forcibly abducted Abner Doubleday, bringing him back to the 1780s to invent baseball almost a century early, and thus tearing a hole in space-time, but that will be discussed in chapter 8: Martin Van Buren vs. the Creatures from Beyond the Void, Part 3: Murder She Wrote...While She Was Dead...From Space!

The count was 1 and 2, the crowd was tense. John Adams was at the plate. He looked up into the stands, searching for something, but he dropped his bat as the ball crossed the plate.
"STEE-RIKE 2!"
George ran out to home plate. "What's wrong, Johnny? You just missed that last ball."
"It's muh dead-beat dad, coach. He ain't done shown up agin; I think he's out drinking." The Massachusetts delegate with an inexplicably southern accent tried to hold back his tears.
"Look. I'll be your deadbeat dad for today, and I'll do all the drinking I have to do to make you feel happy, but you've got to stay focused, get your head back in the game. I mean, this is the big one, the one we've all dreamed of." George walked back to the dugout.
John steadied himself and picked up his bat, a look of determination in his eyes. The pitcher wound up, the ball spinning out of his hand. The crowd was still, the Americans team watching anxiously. Some say time itself seemed to stop on that day. I remember it meself, 'cause I had just gotten into a fistfight with James Madison over who could throw Alexander Hamilton the farthest... but that's a story for a different campfire.
Well, little Johnny Adams stared that ball right in the proverbial eye, and smacked it right out of the park.
Course, there was only one other person on base, so it would have only counted as two points by today's standards, but at that time, based on the made-up-on-the-spot-by-Ben-Franklin rules that stated that one british run was equal to 4 american ones, we won. And everyone was happy.
Except for Thomas Jefferson, who'd been made a pinch hitter and had stormed off shouting, "Baseball! F**k baseball! I wrote the motherf**king Declaration of motherf**king Independence!" Yeah. But everyone else was happy.

(OP: Nate, October 2 2007)