Night Visions

You find yourself imprisoned where cold grows so frigid that it becomes scalding, long suffering the pendant arrival of a bus on an avenue wide like an ocean, wind plucking your heavy trousers stiffened with chill, flapping about your calves under your thrift-store overcoat; you hid inside your earbuds from the desperate urban congress of a thousand bodies shivering in unison, cold beggaring stillness, yet you are still.

On the bus there's been some mistake -- your magazine scans cyrillic and you close it disconsolately preserving the morning's dogear. Tomorrow, or next Thursday, it will be English, or your facility with the foreign tongue will have returned, unannounced, unheralded, one of a dozen faculties that come and go without warning, unbidden, unlamented, un. Like you, drifting in and out of milieux, wallflower and gadfly, authority and dilettante, gravitas and humor. Un.

Hustling down your block, smooth soles slipping atop the icy veneer without warning, penetrating a wall of private sound, something silly, Scandinavian, incongruous, small children crowding a doorway, at play or in violent confrontation, playacting or enacting (un) assault, "motherfuckers" and "bitches" . . . as you pass, sidelong in every way, you try to gauge the exigency, the emergency, whether to intervene, and despite your suspicions that the fists are angry and the victim pained, the assailants' ages and inertia propel you past, to finish your cigarette on your stoop.

You pass a dark figure traveling the other way a few houses later, enshadowed and hunched, and you turn, guiltily, to see whether he imposes, but he doesn't, his occult moral calculus arriving, by whatever path, where yours has. Vaguely mollified, you proceed to your stoop a quarter-block hence, where you linger on your stoop, remove your aural armor, finish your cigarette safely outside, shuffling in the wintry rime at the stairs' edge.

"R-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-tat-tat," one child repeats incessantly, strafing his friends into hamburger. "Is you a cop or a robber, motherfucker?" one of the impossibly small children quizzes. "R-r-r-r-r-r-r-tat-tat." "Is you a cop or a robber?" "R-r-r-r-r-r-r-tat-tat." And so on.

A child rolls on the street, while another throws a length of PVC foraged from anywhere over a fence nearby to clatter on concrete out of sight. A child screams inarticulately, sounding pained, but what can you make of this, which mimicks child's play's universality beneath a patina of something more local, culturally isolate, inaccessible.

Your cigarette burns down, and you roll it between your fingers to loose its burning end like pinching the third mint from the end free of its foil roll. Your fingers numb, uncertain, unmoored, uninvolved, you turn the cylinder with your key and slip into your house, where familiarity embraces you and forgives you -- un -- all you don't understand.

Passing the Torch

And just now, Bonds speaks, the stadium still echoing with the mellifluous and generous message Henry Aaron recorded in honor of the occasion, congratulating Bonds. Congratulating Bonds. You'd think I'd be tarred and feather for making the suggestion. But I love the game of baseball, and I won't be deterred from honoring one of the greatest hitters in the history of the game, in company with Ruth and Aaron and Mays, men whom I lack the arrogance to compare.

I watched the first at bat tonight, catching it (deliberately) between other pursuits. Barry roped a double 400 feet to right center field, centering a good breaking ball perfectly but failing to get under it. Barry's second at bat coincided with my going to bed, and I ran in from the bathroom, toothbrush in hand and a mouth full of foam, to watch him lash a single to right field.

It was clear that he was hitting the ball well, very well -- hitting it like Barry hits it. Adjusting during lengthy at bats in those minute increments that are familiar to those who have watched Barry over the years and know what they're seeing, taking a breajing ball inches out of the strike zone on a 2-2 count, fighting balls off that weren't quite in the right location.

And then instead of reading for five or ten minutes and lying down, as I usually would, I decided to mute the television, read a little longer, and see how quick the Giants' line-up came back around. It was fast enough for me to linger, reading a good novel with my glasses on, looking up every so often to check on things.

I have tickets to see the Giants when they visit PNC Park on Monday, and as Barry slumped and time passed I allowed myself a sliver of hope that he would come to Pittsburgh still at or below 755. But when he tied the record over the weekend, I knew it wouldn't last until the thirteenth. Tonight as Barry came up for the third time, I found myself impatient, knowing in my heart that he would hit 756 this week in San Francisco, as it should be, and preferring it to happen when I could watch live.

And so as the count went to 2-0, then to 2-1 (looking) 2-2 (swinging) and 3-2, Barry then fouling off one, and another, I watched his battle, his focus, and I didn't doubt for a second that he would swing for it with two strikes, as he always does, missing far too rarely for the force and majesty of his swing. His sweet swing.

And he hit it, sky high into cavernous right center field, and what I imagine was an ugly scrum in the stands -- as much at least hinted in the video replay -- ensued.

Perhaps portions of Barry's career have been improperly enhanced by steroids, Human Growth Hormone, or amphetamines. History increasingly teaches us that athletes will do anything to exceed their peers, to reach what they imagine is their peak potential, sacrificing their own safety and their integrity, for the ephemeral incidents of dominance, or simply to push themselves over the hump, to make themselves competitive in a crowd of athletes with greater natural gifts. Barry's case is hardly unusual to the sport, or the person. That we do not know the breadth of the problem, that we may never know, does not entitle us to burden one man with the sins of an entire sports-media complex -- and yes, I impeach the whole establishment, for reasons that may or may not be self-evident, but which in any event are too lengthy to consider now.

If it was true of him, it was true of the pitchers whom he always dominated throughout his career, and if true of them than true as well of the outfielders who chased his flyballs, the infielders who reached balls that might otherwise have slipped under their gloves.

In the past weekend, Alex Rodriquez hit his 500th homerun and Tom Glavine pitched his way to his 300th victory. Earlier this season, Frank Thomas hit his 500th homerun, and that threshold, once itself rather rarefied, came closer to reach, as it will continue to do as the big hitters of the past twenty years, steroid-fueled perhaps; more effectively physically conditioned and video- and computer-aided no doubt; beneficiaries of modern medicine and nutrition, diluted pitching talent, shrunken modern ballparks, maple bats, certainly -- as this class of hitters and those who follow retire.

And what other records coincide with the steroid era? Sosa's and McGwire's three-year epic battle for the homerun title, of course; but so does Ripken's 2157th consecutive game played, several perfect games and myriad no hitters, Clemens' dominant rush past 300 victories, Kerry Wood's twenty strikeouts on a hot day in Chicago -- the Boston Red Sox winning the championship that had eluded them for decades upon decades. What of these will remain, what feats can we recognize justly, if we refuse to honor Barry Bonds' achievement?

None, an entire era ripped from the history books baseball adores like no other sport even begins to emulate, an entire batch of American legends, none more venerated than the sluggers, the men who bat fourth in the order, who can change the complexion of a game, of a season, with one perfect swing.

In order to reach 755 homeruns in a 20-year career, one must average 37.75 home runs per season. Taking into account physical and mental development, injury, external conditions like the ballpark one calls home, the hitters who line up behind you, distracting personal problems, this is an astonishing thought, especially in light of the fact that when I was young and learning to love this game, when Barry was just entering the game to much fanfare in My Adopted Fair City Pittsburgh, gangly and fast and more of a scrapper than a slugger, 40 homeruns was a plateau that no one reached for entire seasons on end, a very different time than the pumped up, power-focused era that has coincided with my majority.

Whatever happened happened; and with or without chemical assistance, Barry would have finished his career honored among the same handful of legendary hitters to whom he is compared now, even mired in suspicion and invective. And isn't it telling that only a few of the loudest and least informed naysayers seriously maintain that he ever was not destined to be one of the great hitters, or deny that this event, this night, was something that fits a pattern of mastery established long before anyone has suggested any impropriety on Bonds' part. Whatever Bonds has chosen to do, he's done.

At home plate, Barry's son, Nikolai, stood alone, waiting for his father, his complicated, standoffish, embattled father, professional teammates at a discrete distance ringing the dirt at home plate. The real celebration, Barry's embrace of his son, his elevated hands and his upturned face, having passed in a few seconds, the for-the-cameras festivities ensued. The sound of fireworks past center field, over McCovey Cove, visible eventually on camera, Willie Mays on the field (whom Bonds gestured toward repeatedly, honoring his Godfather and legendary predecessor, perhaps his better), Aaron on the Jumbotron making the only appearance he was willing to make, but doing so with dignity and grace.

And then one of the announcers put Barry Bond's thoughts, pensive on the bench in the wake of the crowd's loving display, to words: "It's over." Until the next time, when I'll be watching if I'm able.

Thanks, Barry, for the memory.

Time Out

The furnace kicks on, belatedly heeding my injunction electronically transmitted. I do not know it's language. I do know, however, how to goad the translator. Sixty-two degrees is all I ask. Sixty-two degrees -- in the dining room, at least, with whatever that connotes for this most drafty corner of the house, my writing table nestled in the corner of my bedroom bracketed by windows that admit nearly as much daylight through the crenellated rot in their sashes as through their murky glass.

An epigraph, apt perhaps only to me:

I'd forgotten. Maybe I'd never known. He sang in that empty packinghouse as I hadn't heard him sing since childhood. Every nub in his sound had been burned away, all impurity purged. He'd found a way at last to transmute baseness back into first essence. Some part of him had already left this earth. My brother, the prizewinner, the lieder recorder, the soloist with symphonies, had found his resounding no. He sang Perotin, someting we'd had in school only as history, the still-misshapen homunculus of things to come. But in Jonah, all stood inverted: more good in the bud than in the full flowering. He'd found he freshness of always, of almost. He made that vast backward step sound like a leap ahead. The whole invention of the diatonic, everything after music's gush of adolesence had been a terrible mistake. He hewed as closely to a tube of wood or brass as the human voice allowed. His Perotin turned the abandoned warehouse into a Romanesque crypt, the sound of a continent still turned in upon itself for another sleeping century before its expansion and ouward contact. His long, modal, slowly turning lines clashed and resolved against no harmony but themselves, pointing the way down a reachable infinity.

The quote is from Richard Powers, deep into the twilight of The Time of Our Singing, page 529 in the Picador trade paperback, far deeper than its poetry should last, but there it is, waiting patiently for each discovery, none so precious as the first, Powers sitting back one afternoon at his computer, rubbing his fingers absently and considering -- Yes, that's it.

At the office this evening, alone after quitting time, I stood from my ineffectual writing, today a labor more Herculean than quotidian, and contemplated the city fallen before me, hundreds of feet down, cars like beads of mercury reasoning in faltering rhythms their ways through constricted grooves attended by insects to absorb into their plump insides, flat roofs graveled over, two rivers made one to run away like the time in every clock I see, whether blinking, ticking, or carving fluid circles in a shallow circular terrarium, metaphors for the ineffable, all of it, of them.

My palms pressed against the glass, I allowed it to resist my falling, a fantasy of weightlessness humming in my core. Unsatisfied, I leaned forward until the full of my chest rested against the glass, which held me with the indifference of one turning to a lesser task. I cannot pen my own story, can neither spin it in gossamer radial rhombuses of words nor fence it in like livestock.

Walking across town, injured shoulder throbbing with a day at the keyboard like a day hammering nails, I gagged on a poem of melancholy. A rejection of blues and grays in the poetry of sadness; a celebration, in its place, of the vividness of solitude, colors knocked off their banal foundations in a shockwave of alienation. Neon neon enough to define neon. The blue border of a posted notice commanding concentration. The atmosphere of sound resolved to order, one conversation to the next, ears like radio telescopes corraling distant messages or tricking static into nonsense facsimile.

Depression is poetry's bad penny. I will not be complicit in its gathering in the bottom of clothes dryers, between cushions, in gutters too valueless to stoop for. I will not stoop. Poetry doesn't need me; it never has.

A backyard, Glenlivet and a cigar, San Luis Rey, sweetish with a mild finish, a hint of something I lack the vocabulary to describe, another language unlearned. But I need no words to enjoy the murky traffic cone luster of its smoldering end, the swirl of smoke eddying around my tongue tingling with tobacco and peat, alive like no other part of me. My Sybaritic essence, distilled.

On my lap I persist in reading a Richard Russo short story I already recognize as an episode from his novel Straight Man, and I try not to feel cheated by the editorial padding, recycling having its place in art . . . and in marketing. And of course a first collection of short stories that emerges long after a novelist has emerged has more to do with marketing than with art.

Upon finishing the story, unfinished when the bus slowed to my stop, I returned to the Powers, and a book I have plodded through for months now, savoring, resisting its inevitable end by reading in sips, as I enjoy the scotch, mulling without haste.

On the street and alley my property connects like the crossbar of a stylized H, someone is always throwing someone else out in a public ritual of shunning alien to my suburban instinct for decorum. Dirty children play unidentifiable contact sports in the untended property two lots over.

An errant ball thudded on the roof of my patio which shed it like water to bounce on the concrete of my neighbor's patio. I eyed its downward trajectory until it came to rest against the low chainlink fence that divides my neighbor's property from mine. I looked up to the children and found one towheaded boy to meet my gaze, daring me to betray my age with an angry injunction. I refused his invitation, determined to remember my own childhood, content that my home, rickety though it often seems, would bear the incursion stoically.

Down the alley, a woman yelled "Get the fuck out then!" with the practiced ease of a leading lady in the third act of a production's final performance, already mindful of her next part, which on paper looks like more of the same.

The grass I have seeded bursts from beneath the overturned clogs of weed and exhausted soil in slim walls of artificial green, the turnedup undersides of the prior yard bare and accusatory. In one patch, the blades number only in the dozens, despite hundreds of seeds. I have probably done something wrong, another task incomplete. I am surrounded with evidence of my impatience. I trail it like a wake behind me.

I live amid mysteries of my own invention for another's gleaning. But whose?

Round Tripper

It was Freud, no, who said "Every man is a God in his dreams?" Something like that, anyway, and it's really not that important. I can't imagine anyone would disagree that a great many of us live robust, and completely otherly lives in our minds, in which we pursue and perhaps seize that which eludes us in the world we come to think of as real. Our fantasies our all over the map, some of course more spectacular than others, some more attainable than others. Some have the effect of charting a course to their attainment in the world. Others are more remote, ephemeral, consisting either of things that simply aren't meant to be, or perhaps things that we'd realize had been folly to want in the first place were we ever to achieve them.

Perhaps it's the time of year that leads me to consider this one particular aspect of my fantasy life; as some columnist recently noted, among the more appealing words in the English language for this writer are "Pitchers and catchers." Spring training is nearly upon us. I love baseball, I always will, and though I resist accession to our culture's most dominant metaphors as ultimately stultifying and counterproductive, memes that cabin our imaginations in the worst way, I can't dispute that through socialization and habit I have come to count the game of baseball as a highly instructive and appealing milieu.

Perhaps my fantasy life is richer in virtue of my dominant creative streak. It strikes me as high arrogance to say so, insofar as it's not a quantifiable characteristic, but it does seem to be a dominant cultural assumption: that in certain senses, artists' imaginative faculties somehow exceed those of the non-artists. And I have lived many lives in my dreams, by day and night, eyes tightly shut and sliding anxiously back and forth or open and fixed on some point in the remote distance. But there is one fantasy that never fades, that I indulge virtually (or quite possibly actually) every day of my life: hitting a homerun.

I played baseball from a very young age, and continued on into high school, though I ended my baseball career prior to my junior year because other, er, priorities became paramount. I never played spectacularly well, but once I hit twelve or so I played competently, and had moments of great success. At fifteen years old, I pitched an honest-to-goodness no hitter in my town's equivalent of Babe Ruth level baseball, a considerable feat given that in town leagues it's a given that at least one of your outfielders will be hopelessly incompetent. My last high school team, the junior varsity on which I spent my second year, was atrociously bad, and I was able to pitch only one truly good game (which we lost anyway, I should add). That my freshman and JV teams won only one or two games in two seasons probably had something to do with my early retirement.

At 21 or so, when I contemplated attempting to walk on to my Division I university team as perhaps a relief pitcher, I joined a men's league team for one season. I enjoyed modest success, but my always mediocre hitting had become even more dubious, and as a pitcher I probably hit ten batters in fifteen or so innings due to tremendous problems harnessing and spotting the curveball on which I'd always relied. I also was just beginning to wear glasses, and was dubious about whether to wear them on the field, which led to the rather embarrassing handling of a number of infield fly balls when I was tasked to play second base.

Since then, with one brief exception, my diamond has been smaller -- the softball field. There, I have found much greater success as a hitter, and as a third baseman I've proven far more effective than I ever was on defense in my life as a baseball player. That the ball covers the 60 feet between home plate and my glove in an eyeblink, I think, makes things easier for me: as this blog might attest, I tend to overthink things, and the longer I have to contemplate a task, the more likely I am to muff it. Third bass in softpitch softball isn't a game, it's survival. Evidently, I have a strong will to live and fairly sharp reflexes.

But the homerun -- ah, it has always eluded me. I have hit precisely one homerun in competition: an inside-the-parker in softball in the spring of 2003 that skidded by a shortstop and a centerfielder en route to the far reaches of the park, the low line drive skipping frantically along the parched desert-hard outfield and to the playground over 300 feet from home plate. It didn't hurt, of course, that I am still young and thin enough to be fairly quick around the bases, or that in softball the basepaths from home plate to home plate measure only 240 feet -- even factoring in high speed turns and the arcs they necessitate, the transit covers less ground than the 100m.

But every day, at my desk, in my bed, in the shower, I am hitting homeruns, I am feeling that indescribable satisfaction of a fastball striking a bat's sweetest spot, and watching it streak skyward, watching the pitcher and middle infielders snapping their necks back to follow its transit, the outfielders converging on the groundline of its trajectory at a full run and then relenting long before the ball begins its descent in the simple knowledge that the ball will land far outside the field of play, that it will exceed their best efforts entirely.

Nothing feels anything like making square contact with a swift-moving baseball. Nothing is even close. And perhaps it's this, or perhaps it's that I was roughly a .250 hitter at every level of baseball I ever played (I hit closer to .500 in softball) and didn't hit long balls very often, that makes my memories of the few balls I hit truly well so vivid.

I have a mediocre memory at best, but still I remember as though it happened this morning my first basehit in organized baseball. I was young, perhaps seven or eight, and most bats were as tall as I was. We were playing at a field nestled into one of the quadrants formed by a busy suburban intersection, the monolith of a turn-of-the-century schoolhouse looming beyond the distant right field fence, the skin infield tan, unforgivingly hard, and humped with the ossified footprints of muddy post-rain games long past. A pitch came in, low, but I had nothing like a strikezone back then, and at my height nothing was really unhittably low. I swung, following the ball on its path towards the top of the plate, and watching my bat make strike the ball -- I saw it, and still can -- and I peered up into the blue sky incredulously as it arced up and over the first baseman, who I could see was backpedaling toward where he thought it would land. I dropped the bat and began to race to first base, following the ball's flight as though it were a shooting star instead of a bloop fly ball hit perhaps 80 feet. As I approached the bag, the first baseman continued to stumble backward but to no avail: the ball thumped to the grass just beyond the edge of the infield, and just barely in fair territory. A basehit. A single. My first hit ever.

I remember nothing else from that age with such vividness or urgency. Indeed, I remember my first sexual encounter, when I was considerably more than twice as old as I was that little league afternoon, far less vividly. No graduation, no kiss, no party, no accomplishment or victory compares. Which suggests to me, albeit weakly, that perhaps that first basehit was, for me, more a coming of age than any of these other events were -- an astonishing thought.

I remember other significant hits with similar vividness. I remember my first long ball. This occurred on a field across town, at a higher competitive level, and both the pitcher and the centerfielder on the other team were regarded as among the best players in the league (the centerfielder would eventually lead our high school football team to a state champtionship). That day, the outfield playing me in as they always did given my diminutive stature and failure to prove myself a significant threat, I laced a fastball low and hard, perhaps the most satisfying linedrive I ever hit, the ball rising steadily as it streaked toward centerfield. The centerfielder, Derek P., took two hurried steps in, fooled by the low screamer as anyone who has played outfield has been fooled at one time or another. Once he realized his error, that the ball would sail far over his head, he hurled his glove upward toward it in frustration and futility. The ball, of course, eluded the glove, rolled deep into the centerfield grass, and I scrambled into third bass with a triple. Throwing the glove, it turned out, required a one-base sanction. So I jogged home with an umpire-aided homerun.

That same season, later in the year, I hit another gapper, at another field named for our nation's first president, another triple. After that, I remember fewer hits. As you grow older in baseball, your season comprises more games. Certainly, those were not the last of my extra base hits, and I hit a good deal more over the years. Never, though, did I hit a homerun over a fence in a game situation.

The closest I came to doing so was in that summer of 2003. The field at which I sometimes play softball has a hill in right field that climbs toward a fence and then the street. There's a quonset shack standing in dead center field, the point of its roof constituting a dividing line: to the right, balls that clear the building or the adjacent fence are either ground-rule doubles or singles, depending. To the left, however, a ball hit onto the roof of the shack is a homerun. Although in softball I prefer to place line drives (even the long rolling homerun mentioned above was intended to be a single) than to swing for the long ball I virtually never hit, on one occasion I swung foolishly at a ball far outside the strikezone and up at shoulder level. Something about the swing the pitch necessitated, however, accelerated my batspeed considerably, altered my swing, the result being a mammoth flyball to deep center field. I almost didn't leave the batter's box, as surprised by my show of power as a puppy is by its first true bark. The centerfielder raced over to receive it, should it bounce off the side of the building, and that's what it did, ricocheting wildly off the aluminum face of the structure no more than five feet below the roof's gutter, the de facto homerun line, I'd missed it by nothing at all, but still, another double, another rare extra base hit, and my wait would continue.

Strange mythologies inform our lives. I have spent periods of time lulling myself to sleep by typing out my thoughts in my head, by which I taught myself to type 90 or so words per minute. I have spent years lulling myself to sleep by visualizing the completion of various rockclimbing projects that have bedeviled me; I have no doubt that these exercises improved my climbing. But baseball is always there, the din of a modest group of onlookers, the simple symmetry of eight defenders orienting themselves towards my at-bat, chattering back and forth in shows of support and exchanges of information relevant to their defensive enterprise, the left fielder taking a step or two in and to the left, catching my observation of this move, taking compensatory steps to the right and back, me eyeing the infield for a hole through which I might poke a basehit, and then the pitch, the decision whether to swing or take, and the split-second wait that feels, on the best day, like an eternity.

Softball has been a great deal of fun for me, but it also has confirmed the singularity of baseball. Last year, I returned to New Jersey for a weekend to learn that a legacy game was planned for alumni of my high school's baseball teams: my younger brother, a far more talented all-around ballplayer than I ever was, intended to attend. I demurred reluctantly; I hadn't brought any of my equipment. But before long, I was furnished by brother and father with passable spikes, a glove, and a hat. So there I was, playing alongside fifteen or twenty years of assorted old guys, lined up opposite that year's rather abysmal varsity squad. I made numerous mistakes in that game, and on defense looked like what I was: a guy far more accustomed to the soft, fat unwieldiness of a softball rather than the lean and cruel heft of a baseball. At the plate, I prolonged my first at-bat in probably ten years against full-speed pitching, fastballs, curveballs, and fought off a few pitches to reach a full count before going down on a called strike at eye level. My next at bat, I waited on the first curveball I'd tried to hit, stayed with it (as they say), then went with it (as they say), and blooped a Texas leaguer behind first base, which looked like it just might get down before the secondbasemen could wheel around and get under it, following the same path as my first basehit had, some twenty-plus years ago. Alas, the second baseman was a bit too fast, and he managed to extend his glove at ground level just far enough to catch the ball, the heel of his throwing hand sliding in the grass to halt his skid. A nice try, but not enough. O for 2.

In my final at-bat, our team trailing by a couple of runs, two on and two out, I came up in a position that had become a source of great humor in my family for twenty years. Historically, I have had a knack for coming up with two outs in situations where my team trails. And if you do that enough, even if you're a decent hitter, you will make a lot of final outs. And I have. More than my share. And there's nothing fun about returning to the bench as the guy who failed to keep the team's hopes alive, though it gets easier with practice.

I was all too conscious of this as I dug in against the varsity's closer, a pitcher who threw much harder than the other guy I had faced. He was tall and broad of shoulder and thigh and generally imposing. He pitched from the stretch with a slidestep that left little time for picking up the ball out of his hand. I felt as I had during my first at-bat: wholly lost, ten years' removed froom any proficiency at this sort of thing, and at least modestly concerned about getting hit by one of the stopper's hard fastballs. (Getting hit by a fastball is another rather unpleasant thing one doesn't easily forget, and for which there is no adequate comparison.) His first pitch, surprise surprise, raced toward my jaw, and for a moment I stood transfixed, certain that I didn't know how to evade the ball. At the last second instinct kicked in, and I dropped the bat, raised my lead shoulder, and fell away from the plate just escaping the ball's groove by a few inches.

This of course did nothing for my comfort level in the box, and I decided my best bet was to guess what the pitcher would do next. I decided to look for a fastball on the inside part of the plate, but in the strike zone. He threw me precisely that pitch, and everything seemed to slow down. It was a bit further inside than I would have preferred, but it was a strike, one I couldn't afford to take idly. Instead, I stepped into the pitch and brought my bathead around swiftly, looking to pull the pitch into left field. The contact couldn't have been more perfect, the ball leaping off the best part of the bat and hooking down the left field line. It was low, rising just enough to pass cleanly over the leaping thirdbaseman's glove as it arced left toward the line and dropped to the ground thirty or so feet into left field just inside the line -- a single, but an honorable, sharply hit one. I had beaten the pitcher; I knew it, he knew it.

That was possibly as satisfying a hit as my first, and as any of the hits that followed. Trivial as it was in the end (not only did we still lose, but we lost two batters later when yours truly got picked off breaking too soon in an attempt to steal third base), it occurred under adverse circumstances for which I was woefully underprepared. Of course, I still managed to come up with a way to make the last out. And I still continue to fantasize about the heroic late-inning homerun it becomes less likely I will ever hit with each passing season. And I don't care. It's my fantasy, my game, my childhood.

Back back back -- GONE!

And the crowd. Goes. Wild.