The short, flickering swing;
the short legs; the quick trot
as if the video is on fast-forward.
Men in hats stand and clap with their newspapers,
their palms inky, their foreheads sweaty,
the bands of their fedoras dark,
like quiet rivers around their heads.
They watch the ball, nothing else to distract them,
as if watching the first rocket,
the Wright brothers skimming Kitty Hawk;
the crowd is one giant mass,
each man a molecule,
all of them working together
to generate a superhuman sound,
a wave of adulation
as the ball slips over the leather
of the center fielder
and disappears into the endless grass
beyond the fence.