In my adolescence getting out of the house wasn’t a want, more of a need. My objective correlative is one of the objects that sums up some of these outings. The second I see a dirty tennis ball something triggers in my head, as funny as that sounds. I am mentally teleported to the summers of the early 2000’s. We were afraid of getting hit by actual baseballs, especially in our more sensitive areas, so we would replace them with tennis balls. Unfortunately, these were extremely easy to hit very far and we would find ourselves spending hours looking for ones we homered out of the park. The woodsy areas where we would launch the balls to the most we nicknamed “The Trails”. In “The Trails” I personally thought I was exceptionally skilled in finding the muddy lime green spheres that would allow for one of our games to occur. Wilson tennis balls were too expensive on our $0 budget and the cheap ones at the bodega on our block would pop extremely easily. So we improvised.