I played little league for one year when I was like nine or ten. Like a lot of things I did as a kid, I didn’t really have any specific, well-reasoned desire to be doing it. I think I vaguely liked the idea, and my parents asked if I wanted to and I just sort of said yes.

Where I’m going with this is that the assistant coach for our team was either a drunk or just really an asshole, because he couldn’t throw a pitch over the plate to save his life and he managed to bean me on two separate occasions and never even really apologized for it. So maybe this strip is an attempt to battle the trauma I’ve carried all these years through therapeutic diorama, or something.

I also wasn’t totally comfortable with all that selling-beef-sticks fundraising bullshit but I’m not sure how to represent that in terms of aerial violence so that’ll just have to sit on the back burner for now.