How You Do It

At last.
A pitcher from Alabama you've probably never heard of, his blue cap struggling to contain his curly brown hair, his five long years in the minors leading him to this throw, the next of thousands more toward the major leagues he will never reach, rocks back, half-pirouettes, and surrenders the baseball to the indifferent night. It cuts some 60 feet of Pawtucket, slices past a batter from Oklahoma who already senses being out of his depth, and smacks into the mitt of a catcher from Massachusetts who will someday hit a home run in an unforgettable World Series. The crack of ball hitting leather echoes like a Champagne bottle's uncorked pop.
"Strike," the umpire calls at 8:02, and we've got us a game at last.

A pitcher from Alabama you've probably never heard of, his blue cap struggling to contain his curly brown hair, his five long years in the minors leading him to this throw, the next of thousands more toward the major leagues he will never reach, rocks back, half-pirouettes, and surrenders the baseball to the indifferent night. It cuts some 60 feet of Pawtucket, slices past a batter from Oklahoma who already senses being out of his depth, and smacks into the mitt of a catcher from Massachusetts who will someday hit a home run in an unforgettable World Series. The crack of ball hitting leather echoes like a Champagne bottle's uncorked pop.

"Strike," the umpire calls at 8:02, and we've got us a game at last.

— Dan Barry, Bottom of the 33rd, p. 25