THE BASEBALL FIGHT

THE MAN ON THE MOUND IS eyeing the batter, his fingers taut on the seams, salivating over that wide-open target that is his prey’s broad back.

He coils up, and fifty-two uniformed men throughout the ballpark sniff the air, tensing their muscles for the pounce as one. He lets the ball fly. Thwack—a bull’s-eye. The batter’s not down, but he’s hurting, his pride more than anything else. He flings the bat away, yanks off his helmet, and charges the mound, where the pitcher’s fists are waiting for him.

Chaos ensues. Men stream out of each dugout; there’s a mass of bodies churning on the infield grass. Sucker punches land on nearby heads. The TV announcers are wringing their hands, whining, really: “They gotta break this up before someone gets hurt!” The umpires have settled for hanging back on the first baseline, jotting down jersey numbers. And then there’s the crowd, on its feet, roaring for blood like so many Romans around the gladiator ring, their Miller Lites sloshing over the rims of cheapo souvenir cups.

Let the boys play? No, let the boys fight, we say.