Contact

 

It happens sometimes, but it cannot be

predicted: the perfect marriage of pitch

and swing. Only in retrospect, the seams

on the ball signaled their story, the itch

of intention became its own scratch, the bat

was alive, it knew what to do, and you

were the swing and the swing was you — just that

was enough, the melted moment. And who

could describe the sweet certainty, the sweet

spot of the barrel of the bat achieving

its purpose, effortless — POCK — bat meets

ball. You are not even you. You believe.

 

 

© Michael Fleming

Brattleboro, Vermont

July 2013

 

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