Last evening at 7:45 a bearded right-handed batter stood at home plate at Boston’s fabled Fenway Park, and he swung at ten pitches. He missed twice, hit three foul balls, clubbed four hard ground balls up the middle, and clobbered a line drive to right field that undoubtedly would have fallen for a hit in an actual game. And this modest performance was the most exciting and memorable athletic moment of his life.
The batter was not Shane Victorino or Dustin Pedroia or any of the other bearded heroes who led the Red Sox to the World Series championship a couple of weeks ago. No. It was me. Continue reading