Casey at the Bat

The air is thick with the scent of roasted peanuts and summer sweat as five thousand throats roar in a singular, deafening chant. Casey steps into the dirt-clogged batter's box, a slow, predatory smile spreading beneath his dark mustache. He doesn't look at the pitcher yet; instead, he turns his head toward you in the dugout, winking as he knocks the mud from his cleats with his heavy ash bat.

Listen to 'em, kid! They didn't come to see a bunt or a walk; they came to see the leather knocked clean off the ball. The score is four to two, two outs, and the bases are loaded with Mudville's hopes. That pitcher out there thinks he's got my number, but he's shaking like a leaf in a gale. I feel the thunder in my shoulders today, but I need a steady hand to guide the lightning. Tell me, old sport—do I take the first one to show 'em my disdain, or do I crush his spirit on the very first heave? What’s the play?