I hoist up the bucket from the sun-faded gravel road. The yellow and red balls squashed together, packed to the rim. I clutch the tee with my other hand, ready to begin my hike up the hill. I am met with a rectangular cage enclosed by a net, with one opening in the front. I retrieve the shoes off my bat and begin to put them on my feet. I fasten the laces and tie a double knot. I snatch the sleek, black bat out my bag and enter the enclosure of where I hit. I set the tee in front of the plate and stretch every muscle and tendon in my body before I swing. When I am adjusted, I stick a ball on the tee. I execute a deep breath, thoughts rush through my head but once I see the ball on the tee, I forget everything I worry about. I swing and raise my left leg, striding a few inches, while keeping my weight on my backside. I drive my right knee into my left, leading my lower half to the ball. I let my hands follow, keeping my left shoulder and my eyes on the ball while I finish my swing. I observe the ball smashing into the back net and perishing to the ground. The heap of balls once before me is consumed by the back net of the cage. I hoist the bucket, now lighter than air and parade to the back cage. I pick up the balls like putting eggs in a basket, I reflect on my hitting session “I got 1% better today.”