I was using the excuse that I was waiting for the evening rush to die down, in reality I was not looking forward to going back to an empty cold apartment, to have to get myself a hot meal and to spend the night in a lonely double bed. I did not fancy a Saturday shopping for one and then the lonely weekend that lay ahead of me.I had been reading an article in the Evening Standard about how the police were warning about the increasing numbers of young girls sometimes as young as thirteen or fourteen coming to the city from the provinces without money, looking for work or perhaps running away from unhappy homes looking for a job. Many of these girls were picked up at railway stations by unscrupulous men who by various methods, introduced them to hard drugs and then forced them into prostitution.As I was digesting this story I was attracted by a scuffle in the middle of the concourse. Two youths had snatched a bag from a young girl sitting on a bench and had run from the station premises. Jessie picked up the baseball and prepared to knock the heck out of thebottles. Crap! How did I used to throw the baseball again? He thought.It was something that used to be so innate with him but now he struggledto remember how it was done. How could he forget how to throw?The pressure got to him and he finally gave it his best effort hopingthat his instinct would save the day.He raised his arm over his shoulder keeping a stiff wrist and girlishlyflung the ball in a fashion that suggested that he had never even pickedup a ball in his life. By all accounts it was a pathetic, weak, offlinetoss which missed the milk jugs by a good margin. Jessie didn't get it.He regrouped & tried once again. No success. His once fluid motion wasreplaced by feminine flail. He focused harder & gave it one more try butcouldn't hit any of the bottles."I'm usually so good at this game. I think I've forgotten how to throw."Jessie said feeling embarrassed by his poor performance. "Don't worry about it. This.
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