“Sometimes,” he said, squaring up in the batter’s box and not taking his eye off the old coach who was trying to show off his once major league fastball, “you just feel like hitting the fuck out the ball.”   He squinted and fluttered his fingers on the bat handle, the bat remaining steady.

The  pitch sailed in high and outside, he made no move to chase it.  The coach grunted from the mound.  “For Christsake, you coulda hit that.”

“Not 500 feet, Bush.  Give me something I can turn around, give the fans a show.”  said the batter.

The coach went through an ostentatious series of pitcher’s tics on the mound.  Made the motions of loading up the ball, the motions of sneaking these motions past the umps and the opposing team.   The batter didn’t smile at this, nor did he feel impatient.  He just waited, like a Zen archer getting ready.

The next pitch was reasonable, a strike, with just enough on it to make it a little bit of a challenge.  The batter uncoiled and sent it on a rising line toward the lights.    The pitcher turned to watch it go, his body language said “fuck!”

The ball landed in the upper deck, in one of the last rows.  It had traveled 500 feet.  It was foul by about 25 feet.  The batter nodded, the pitcher raised his eyebrows.  If there had been a fan in the stands he might have jumped up.