An ice cream truck approached Yankee Stadium. It was the bottom of the ninth, two outs, full count, Yanks down by one.
The truck sounded the same few notes while not ten feet away, a purse snatcher plied his trade on the oldest-looking, whitest-haired, most wrinkled, bony-fingered, four-eyed woman, wearing the largest pink-framed sunglasses I ever saw.
I wondered if I should call 911 or walk away when her knee, aimed like her life depended on it, met the space below his baseball bat.
Her problem solved.
Meanwhile, the last Yankee standing, with the crowd cheering behind him, struck out.
Thanks for Reading
Michael’s short stories and micro-fiction have been published internationally on the net and in print.
Comment at NYCTSstories@gmail.com
