Our memories of heroes go in chunks; months of success in Boston, triumphs in New York, exploits elsewhere. But every so often, they return to their old fields. Emotion is distorted; we’re unsure how to greet them. Time folds into flukish intersections; we lose trust in simple dimensions.
But before even this repetition comes offense. Two trinities of runs bring up the pitcher, bringing out noise while he steps in. He is still in the box, not needing to swing. In the end (but it is just the beginning), he endures while his opposite number exits. 3-0…but he is retired.
The pendulum jerks over to the hosts without stopping for even one out. Most homers go over the outfield fence. This one goes under it. Victorino tries to surrender, but this sport will not condone such hopelessness. The runner keeps running. The left fielder continues fielding, but is left with no good throw. The Mets score; the competition goes on.
Two runs echo two runs. Then more come, one by one. With the Phillies up by just three runs, Bruntlett hits it into the outfield. The umpire’s unsure, Bruntlett motors on to triple. The Mets’ skipper fights it–more impressively, wins. How often does disputing such rulings work? It’s flukish, weird, but oddity is needed from time to time.
So Bruntlett is out. So too, quickly, is his boss. To the end. Even then, it’s not over. The first hitter gets to third. The next pitch is hit to Bruntlett. E4, one run in, one on. Nobody out.
The next pitch is hit to Bruntlett. He knocks it down. Two on, nobody out.
Then lined to second. Bruntlett’s got it, momentum pushing him through second for out number two. He turns, going for Murphy, who tries to bounce out of the defensive zone. But it is no use–the field too is folded through impossible dimensions. Forever here, forever welcoming the weird.