As a kid, i was determined to become a professional baseball player. i lived in minneapolis, so the weather was less than ideal for baseball. but with the coming of summer, i spent practically every waking hour in my backyard.
it was a big backyard, rectangular in shape. standing with my back to the house, i would look out over the outfield. a picket fence separated our place from the back alley. that was the homerun fence. on one side of the yard was a row of tall hedges with tangled branches that reached out to the sky like thin arms. those hedges represented the crowd. on the other side was a doghouse, which was like the dugout where my team waited on the bench. at night, the lights in the back alley lit up my backyard so that we could play night games.
my neighbor and i would take turns pitching balls to each other. my neighbor had an impressive fastball that was tough to hit. i could just see the digital scoreboard reporting the speed of his pitches. 90 mph. 95 mph. 100 mph! but with my team rooting for me from the bench and the crowd watching my every swing, i refused to strike out.
every now and again, i would hit the ball over the homerun fence. running around the bases, i would close my eyes and imagine the fireworks exploding in the stadium. i would hear the breeze tossing the leaves of our elm tree, which was like the sound of the crowd cheering me on. and i would wave to my adoring fans and know exactly how it felt to be a professional baseball player.

what impact does the location have on the narrator?
a. it makes him bored.
b. it makes him happy.
c. it makes him impatient.
d. it makes him ashamed.