At first, it’s likely to be some surface-level inclination. Maybe the way an evening ballpark illuminates the hyper-greens and the browns that it sits next to. Maybe the way the floodlights bounce off the hitter’s helmet, pronouncing a ghostly stillness each time the pitcher sets up to throw. Maybe it’s the first sight of a short stop receiving the ball drilled towards them, skipping while transferring it from mitt to throwing hand and – stretching time to their will in the same elasticated stride – throwing out a runner at first base.
Honestly, it could be any of the motor skills sunk into a player’s being – unthinking, sweet execution borne of the repetition of a lifetime, hiding any actual competition and instead presenting a kind of alpha ballet of all the pleasing ways a body moves. Maybe it’s just the clothes that do it for you. A walking, breathing map of implied American history. Or the sound – the congregated conversation behind the gently pleasing way a ball lands in a mitt. It could be as trivial as the breathtaking amount of chewing and spitting on view.
