Certainly not the lineup I had been hoping for, but my team was comfortable in their positions on the field. Seasoned veterans, even if most were well beyond their prime, made up the infield. Our pitcher, a future Hall of Famer, had dealt with even the heaviest hitters from the opposing team and was now seeking a final strikeout for the big win. After a commotion from the other team’s dugout, their surprise pinch-hitter emerged. The other team had been fielding unpredictable batters all game, but there was something undeniably different about this one. Standing in the batter’s box, fully adorned in football pads and gear, he commanded the attention of the dwindling crowd. He seemed unaware of where he was or that he had come out of the opposing team’s dugout. He just stood there, nostrils flaring, waiting for the pitch.

Our pitcher motioned to the umpire behind the plate, seeking a judgment call on whether this unexpected appearance of a rogue batter would be allowed. The umpire appeared unfazed, indifferent to the cheers of the crowd, which clearly demonstrated their detachment from the game. Our pitcher shrugged, a real Picasso on the mound. Squinting at the signal from the catcher, she assumed her pitching position. Whoosh! Right over the plate. Strike one!

Now, it should be noted that this pitch was dead center in the strike zone, but some in the bleachers booed. “He doesn’t even have a bat!” they complained. Feeling more confident, our pitcher didn’t wait for a signal from the catcher this time; she simply lobbed the ball over the plate. Once again, it was a perfect strike. “He’s a different kind of player,” one fan explained to another. The boos grew louder, while the batter fumed underneath his helmet. He adjusted his face mask with a tiny hand, squared his stocky shoulders, and dug his feet into the dirt.

Then the garbage started piling up on the field. Our seasoned players looked around, stunned by the disrespect from the crowd, who had, for so long, watched the game. The pitcher looked up, sensing the tension, but reassured by years of skill and treacherous experience in the big leagues, she relaxed her neck and rubbed her hands into her mitt. The pitch left her hand, soared over the plate, past the seething batter who kept his eyes fixed on the pitcher instead of the ball. Our catcher, with the ball securely in her glove, looked up at the umpire, but before the call could be made, the batter did something extraordinary.

He charged the mound to the roar of the crowd and collided with our pitcher, knocking her over. Standing tall for a moment, he did indeed look victorious, and the crowd was thrilled to witness such audacity. Our team, collectively stunned, watched as he methodically walked the bases, huffing with each step. As he approached third base, he turned to face his captivated audience and triumphantly pumped his hands in the air. Finally reaching home plate, he turned and glanced at the scoreboard, which, of course, remained unchanged because this was baseball. He had struck out, assaulted a fellow player, and insulted the loyal fans of the game.