A Narrative Essay On Cameron Miller

Crack! The baseball flew off the bat as the runner sprinted towards first base. It was a decent hit to left field, but the batter was happier than normal to get on base. This was because Cameron Miller, a retired MLB baseball star and maybe the best player to ever play for the Baltimore Orioles, was watching the game. This was at Brill Park, Cameron’s Little League park, where he practically lived in his youth.
The Orioles were retiring Miller’s number, 19, and Miller wanted to be at the park where he grew up.
Miller had dirty blond hair with a hint of grey - he was 43, almost 44. He had tan skin, blue eyes, and a warm smile. Today he was donned in blue jeans and an orange t-shirt under a black Orioles sweatshirt. It was a crisp March afternoon

First, we will need to go to the scene of the crime.”
“I am so sorry about this,” marveled Elizabeth Fisher, “I can’t think of how it happened. Well, here is the storage room, you can inspect it, Ms. Miller.”
“Is there any evidence, Cristina?” questioned Cameron nervously as he looked around the room. It was pretty much the only place that he didn’t recognize from when he was a kid- very few were allowed in the storage building, for safe keeping of course.
“There were three people,” commented the detective as she was intently scanning the ground, “by the looks of it one tall, about 6’4, one medium, about 5’11, and one short, about 5’7. But that’s all we know.”
For the next couple of hours, Cristina Miller went around interviewing people, gathering evidence, trying to find a lead, and trying to find suspects. But nothing turned up, she couldn’t unearth any information.
As Cristina walked back to the storage building, tired and frustrated, she overheard a couple of teenaged voices talking around the corner.
“Man, that Miller jersey must be worth fifty thousand dollars!” one exclaimed, and Cristina could practically see the boy’s hands rubbing