AN: Hiya everyone! First off, this little group of stories has nothing to do with any of my other fanfictions for The Matrix…sort of anyway. There's mention of Pixie, from my other stories, but that's about it. Nope, these revolve around one of my other made up characters whose whole story has yet to be told. These little stories, little looks into this character's life, come from the fact my sister and I have very odd musical tastes. See, we both got iTunes gift cards for Christmas and we were trying to decide what we wanted to get. My sister and I have very, very, very, very different musical tastes but we both like the old singer Kenny Rogers, especially his song "The Greatest." I was listening to this song and it reminded me of the main character of these little stories. That's sort of how this mess got started. Anyway, please let me know what you think of these little--- kind of little anyway ---stories. Reviews, as always, are always welcome. I'd love to hear what you think and any advice you have…good, bad, or indifferent!

Disclaimer: I own nothing except the characters I made up and their Real World alter egos. I don't own The Matrix, The Animatrix, or any of that cool stuff. I'm broke and I just finished graduate school for my Master's Degree. All I own are my Pointe shoes.

"Little boy in a baseball hat stands in the field with his ball and bat
Says, 'I am the greatest player of them all'
Puts his bat on his shoulder and he tosses up his ball.
And the ball goes up and the ball comes down,
Swings his bat all the way around
The world so still you can hear the sound, the baseball falls to the ground". (From "The Greatest" by Kenny Rogers)

Aside from the little diamond he and the other Arcadia Hornets played on, seven year old Robert--- Robbie ---LaLuce's favorite place to play was his own backyard. It wasn't a huge backyard or anything but it seemed huge to the little seven year old.

Robbie wasn't the biggest of boys on the team but he wasn't exactly the smallest either. When the boys lined up in size order, he was always somewhere in the middle of the pack. As far as looks went, he was of average appearance with bright hazel eyes and messy looking dirty blond hair. There was a light dusting of freckles across the bridge of his nose, there mostly because he spent a great deal of his time out in the sun playing.

At the moment, said hazel eyes were peering out from underneath a worn Houston Astros hat that he'd gotten from his father. Robert never went anywhere without his hat, much to his mother's annoyance. She said it made him look messy and unpresentable, whatever that actually meant.

In Robert's head, his mother, Faye, just didn't understand how important the hat was to him. The young boy was lived and breathed the Houston Astros and he had to wear his cap. If he took the cap off the Astros might lose and he didn't want to be responsible for that. He'd always liked watching them win better than watching them lose.

In his seven year old opinion, losing was the worst thing...ever.

Not that winning and losing mattered at the moment to the seven year old. No, he was more concerned with the bigger things in his universe. The rest of the world didn't really matter to him in the same way it didn't matter to lots of kids his age. The world was what they thought it was, nothing more and nothing less.

In his right hand, clutched so tightly that his hand was starting to hurt was his wooden trusty baseball bat. Though, on the field, he had to use a metal bat--- his father, Alan, a former minor league pitcher for the Boson Red Sox,had said many times that metal bats were tools of the devil. Robert wasn't exactly sure what that meant but he figured it had to be bad. ---at home, Robert has his trusty Louisville Slugger.

The wooden bat was heavier than the metallic one he used when he played with his team but his father had said that was alright too. It would only make him stronger, give him the ability to swing his metal bat faster.

Besides, all his favorite major league pitchers used wooden bats. Even though he was only seven, Robert had already decided that he wanted to play baseball for a major league team when he grew up. That much was a given already.

There was just one tiny hitch his in "grand plan." Robert wasn't entirely sure what position he wanted to play yet. On his little league team, he played as both a pitcher and shortstop. It was common on little league teams like his for the kids to play more than one position. Unless someone was especially talented, everyone learned how to do everything on the baseball diamond.

The young boy liked both positions equally so it was hard for him to pick one for him to play on the major league level. Then again, in his mind, he thought he could just do both when he got older. Maybe they'd make an exception for him because he was good at both; at least that's what he figured.

Clutched in Robert's left hand was his favorite practice baseball. There were always baseballs around the house he lived in--- That always made his mother angry. She liked the house as neat as she liked the people living in it. ---but the one he kept with his wooden bat was his favorite one to practice out in the backyard with.

The baseball was a scuffed, dirty thing with stitches that had once been red. Now they were as filthy and frayed as the rest of the ball. Robert knew he was only supposed to use the ball for practice at home.

Well for practice at home and for "seasoning" his gloves. Robert wasn't sure why it was called that, since his mother seasoned food and they weren't allowed to play with those seasonings. His little brother Arthur, four years to his seven years old, often gotten in trouble for doing just that. It was the word his father used when talking about the gloves he played with.

Unlike some on his team, Robert carried two regulation baseball mitts with him whenever his played. He had his pitcher's glove and his shortstop's glove. Even though it was only Little League, as his mother often said, his father insisted that he be properly outfitted for the game. If that meant two gloves than that's what he had to have. His father had said that to him once. Having the right gear was part of the game.

Robert glared at the baseball in his hand, almost daring it to do something other than stay in his hand. He wasn't in the habit of dropping baseballs on the field, even when the ball came at him hard. His father had told him once that only losers dropped baseballs and messed up plays because of it came at them. His father had asked him if he wanted to be a loser and make mistakes that would get him laughed at by his peers.

Robert, wanting to make his father proud of him, had said that he didn't want to be a loser. He was going to be the best baseball player in the world, he'd added, even better than his father had been when he was a younger.

That was one of the many things young Robert didn't really understand. It was one of those things that just confused the seven year old little boy no matter how often he tried to make sense of it.

His father had been a pitcher in the Boston Red Sox minor league system, a long time ago. From what Robert had been told, his father had been an excellent pitcher with the potential to play in the Major Leagues someday. Why his father never actually played major league level baseball was something Robert had never been told.

There had to be a reason, though, for why his father was an accountant instead of a baseball player. He'd asked his father once or twice why he wasn't a famous baseball player--- because everyone knew being a baseball player was a much cooler job than being an accountant ---but he never got his answer. Usually he was sent outside to play or told to go to his room. Whatever the reason was, it was something his father didn't want to talk about.

That was part of why Robert had decided he was going to be a professional baseball player when he grew up. The young boy had gone to work with his father a few times and found it to be extremely boring. Robert figured that being a baseball player wasn't a boring job. If he became a baseball player he'd get to travel to different cities as he played in different stadiums. That was a whole lot more fun, in his seven year old mind, than just sitting in a cramped little office in Arcadia, Texas.

Besides, the young boy figured that if he could play in the major leagues that would make his father proud of him. It would be like his dad playing but not really because it wouldn't be his dad. It would be him, Robert, the famous Major League Baseball Player. Still, the idea was the same to the young boy.

Robert took a deep breath and let it out, staring at the ball in his hand in an almost threatening way. Well, it would have been threatening if not for the fact Robert wasn't exactly vicious looking. There was nothing mean or intimidating about the seven year old boy.

Throwing the ball as high as he could, Robert's other hand flew to the handle of his bat. With all his might, the seven year old swung the bat around in a wild arc in an effort to try and hit the leather covered spheroid that seemed to hang in the air before him for a brief second.

He'd hoped to hear the familiar crack of the bat that meant the bat had connected with the ball. It was a sound--- the ball connecting with the wooden bat ---that Robert had come to know well, even if he was only seven years old. Watching enough baseball games on television and playing in enough little league games, gave anyone a good idea of what a baseball connecting with a bat sounded like.

Robert knew the sound of a baseball connecting with a bat as the greatest sound in the known universe. Probably the greatest sound in many unknown universes as well, actually.

There was nothing better than the crack of a bat as it made contact with a ball. The sound was even better when it meant the ball was going to fly over the outfield fence during a close game. Robert liked watching home runs even though his father had told him time and again that home runs were terrible for new pitchers. They were what broke the confidence of someone coming straight up from the minor leagues or rattled even the staunchest of veteran pitchers.

Despite all of that, the seven year old still liked watching home runs.

In his mind, there was nothing better than watching your favorite player knock in the game winning run on a home run and then get mobbed at home play by the rest of his team. It didn't always happen like that--- the game being won on a home run ---which made it even more fun to watch when it did happen. His team had once won a game like that and everyone got up to mob the batter, his best friend Ben, at the plate.

Robert had pitched part of the game that day so he hadn't been allowed to take part in the mobbing at home plate. It had been fun to watch, though, from the sidelines.

Robert's toss wasn't meant to make such a sound, though. Instead, the boy's toss landed at his feet with a soft, muffled "whump."

"You're swinging too wide Robert," stated a voice, catching the seven year old off guard and, momentarily, making him forget the baseball sitting at his feet.

He wasn't exactly happy with the fact he'd missed again---Since finishing his homework and going out to play, the seven year old had been trying to hit the ball. ---but Robert was determined. He was going to send that ball flying. He wasn't going to keep striking himself out like he'd been doing all day.

After all, good shortstops had to be able to hit. Maybe not hit for power, since shortstops were supposed to be speedy and not strong, but they were supposed to be able to hit something. They had to be able to get the ball in play even if it was just to move a runner over or something like that.

What's more, Robert wanted to be one of those pitchers who knew how to hit. Even though in the National League--- where his Houston Astros played. In his mind, that was the team he wanted to play for someday ---starting pitchers only got to pitch once every five days and there were some relief pitchers who didn't get a chance to hit at all, Robert figured it might be a useful skill to have. It would be awesome, in his mind anyway, if a pitcher won the game with a home run. He was almost sure that was something that never happened.

"Dad!" Robert shouted, throwing his bat on the ground next to the offending ball, and running over to where his father stood. "When did you get home?"

Alan LaLuce,looked down at his scruffy haired older son and triednot to frown as the boy got dust and grit all over the front of the rather bland looking suit he was wearing. As usual, Robert was a royal mess, covered in dirt and dust and a few grass stains. Not only was he a mess but he was playing baseball alone...again. Something his father had told him not to do a thousand times. He could hurt himself by practicing his baseball skills incorrectly.

"I just now got home, Robert," Alan answered, holding his son, lightly, by the shoulders, lest he get any more grit on his suit. "What are you doing back here? I thought I told you no baseball until I got home. You're not supposed to be working on anything without me hereto supervise."

Robert scuffed his shoes in the sandy soil at his feet, trying not to look at his father. He knew he wasn't supposed to be practicing anything on his own--- That was, yet another, thing Robert didn't really understand. All of his friends were allowed to practice by themselves. ---but it was a nice day out and he'd finished all his homework.

Since his brother was too little to play with him and his mother was always "busy" doing things around the house, Robert decided that it was best for him to go outside and play by himself. That was why he'd started practicing. Baseball was always fun, though, it was more fun when it wasn't played alone.

"Just playing dad," Robert mumbled, scuffing his feet on the ground again and accidently kicking dirt onto his father's shiny black shoes. "I wanted to hit better. Ben says that he throws the ball just like that and he always hits it. He even said that he hit the ball out of his backyard once."

Alan shook his head, his frown getting a bit deeper. The whole hitting thing was a sore point for the once pitcher. He'd never been good at it, himself, and he wasn't entirely sure why it fascinated his son. Besides, he was sure that hitting wasn't the way Robert was going to go. Not if he had anything to do with it anyway.

"Well, if you want to hit, you're swinging too wide. You have to close up that stance of yours," Alan told his son, giving him the same advice he'd once heard a minor league hitting coach tell one of the players back during his playing days.

"Can we work on it, dad?" Robert asked, a smile spreading over his freckled face. "Maybe you could show me how to hit better. That way I won't be practicing alone."

Alan shook his head, making Robert frown a bit. He'd been hoping that his father was going to come home and want to play with him. Nothing, in his mind anyway, was more fun than playing baseball with his father. Well, the only thing that came close was playing on the field. There was definitely nothing better than that.

"How about I show you how to throw that ball so no one else can hit it instead?" Alan suggested, taking off his jacket and setting it down with his briefcase on the back porch.

Loosening his tie, Alan walked over to the baseball Robert had, in a roundabout way, left on the ground. He picked up the ball, a wistful smile crossing his face. Alan often wondered just how different his life might have been if he hadn't gotten hurt. He knew that if he hadn't had that car accident that tore his left rotator cuff to shreds he wouldn't be an accountant living in the town he, himself, had grown up in.

"Come here, Robert," Alan said to his son. 'Let me show you how I use to throw my fast ball."

"You mean, the one no one could hit?" Robert wanted to know, his voice mildly amazed. "That one mom said you called the 'eliminator?'"

Alan nodded his head, tossing his son's baseball from hand to hand. Though he'd gotten badly hurt, he still remembered everything about playing the game. If he couldn't play, the least he could do was pass what he knew on to his sons. Maybe one day one of them could play.

Robert smile returned and ran over to his father. Alright, he still couldn't hit the ball but that was no problem.He'd learn how to do that, eventually. At the moment, Robert wanted nothing more than to practice with his father. That seemed like a good way to spend what was left of his day.