By Dave Boeckhout

He turns and watches the ball exit the park. It is a moment internalized, reticent and reclusive. Its wicked surprise launches optimism and expectancy into the obscurity of the night, confidence and ego riding along with it. The knock of good-wood, of the batter getting all of it reverberates like a rifle report, echoing through the air, through the stands; through his skull. Seconds are lengthened. They try him, balancing somewhere between smear and mockery. And the ball lands, mercifully — ricochets across lengths of steel bleachers, a solitary fan chasing down the souvenir. (more…)