by Michael Morse
The fires in the batter’s eyes grow; pupils full flame as the ball approaches, zipping toward home. Muscles twitch, bones move, electric currents only I can see encompass the form as his body strikes, swinging the bat in perfect symmetry with the approaching ball. A “crack,” the ball shoots from the bat, the crowd rises.
I fight the urge to fly, knowing that would shake up the crowd. Fun, yes, but foolish. Instead, I use this cumbersome form to give chase, purposely slowing my movements so nobody will know my potential. It is difficult running slowly, to run at all. Difficult, yet exhilarating, physical exertion something I’m just now beginning to enjoy, some thirty years after inhabiting this body. Thirty thousand sets of eyes follow my path, anticipation filling the ball park as I purposely make it look hard. They rise from their seats as I leave the grass, leaping, stretching, extending…catching!
They roar. The sound fills me with a foreign sensation. They call it happiness. We have no word for this feeling, or any of the others that invade my consciousness every second that I spend here.
Soon they will call me home, and my world will turn red, and this thing called emotion will burn away. Until then, I shall bask in the glory of humanity, and tip my cap to these beings who worship me, without knowing my true nature, only that I make them happy because I can catch and hit a ball better than they.