In the bottom of the 8th, Jon Jay walked to the plate.
He wore blue and red striped socks that stretched up his calf, with baggy pants cinched below his knee.
He took his stance one, two times.
On the third, it started the same:
He watched the ball leave the pitcher’s hand, spinning white circles and curving red lines.
A ball baptized in mud.
Jay shifted his weight to his left leg, and opened his arms.
He raised his right foot, cleats hovering just above the dirt.
His eyes shone.
He stared at the pitch as it dropped into the catcher’s glove.
And Jay walked back to the dugout.
Sometimes there isn’t much a hitter can do.
Sometimes there isn’t more that I can say.
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