There are several kinds of K. One is “degrees Kelvin” and is the temperature in Celsius degrees that something measures above absolute zero. Another is the metric prefix for 1,000. I think most people here in the US see it on their electric bills. KWH. Kilowatt-hours. In Canada it comes around in kilometers and kilograms, too. And I guess people who deal in drugs and pharmaceuticals might recognize the kilo.
In baseball, a K is a strikeout. It’s the magic strike three, looking or swinging. The batter may have stood there, transfixed, as the ball came to the plate, across it, and into the catcher’s mitt. Or he may have swung early or late at a pitch that could have been anywhere but where his bat arced. On rare occasions, it’s a little bunt that rolls foul and has the batter cursing himself, the batmaker and everyone’s mothers.
I have four thousand strikeouts. Four K of K. That number sounds impressive. Like maybe no one ever does it. Except they do. I’m the fifth man to accomplish the feat in the history of the league. And those other four, none of them are Kaell.
He’s become reclusive and hard to catch of late. Sure he takes his turn in the rotation but I haven’t seen him do an interview in ages. There are rumors. If you pay attention to that kind of thing, you already know. And if you don’t pay attention to that kind of thing, you’re probably not interested anyway. But it’s kinda sad, perhaps even the word “tragic” would applly. Kaell was once an outgoing member of the EPL community. Now, it’s like he’s a ghost of who he used to be.
He can still shut me out though. It happened again a couple weeks ago. It rekindles my fire to out-pitch him. Next time, it’s my turn to pitch the three-hitter and his turn to let up three runs.
So K-Kelvin, K-Kilo, K-strikeout and K-Kaell.