He took a strike, and then he nearly swung through another. The ball just grazed his bat and fell somewhere beyond the chalk. The next one he would not miss. The next one he did not swing at, so indeed he couldn’t miss. But the man in a half-billed cap and dark colors in August said it didn’t matter: it was a strike. And so the batter removed his helmet and gently placed it on home plate. The plate had been dusted a pitch ago and so remained mainly white. Then the batter removed his batting gloves. He placed his gloves upon his helmet. With that said, and not a word spoken, he walked toward his dugout. He moved quickly so the sun wouldn’t burn his forehead, no longer shielded.
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