Author’s Note: This piece started off with half a direction, and I lost that half direction along the way, and it really turned into something with no direction at all.
In my dreams, I see a faceless batter step up to the plate. He has a majestic, long swing, or perhaps a smooth, short one—it doesn’t matter, for the pitcher grooves a ball in the hitter’s wheelhouse. He swings, and there’s a loud crack as the ball explodes off the bat. It doesn’t soar in the air, and the batter doesn’t break into a classic home run trot, his hand over his eyes as if he’s a birdwatcher.