（Suggested by post-game broadcasts）

    Fanaticism？  No.  Writing is exciting

    and baseball is like writing.

    You can never tell with either

    how it will go

    or what you will do；

    generating excitement——

    a fever in the victim——

    pitcher， catcher， fielder， batter.

    Victim in what category？

    Owlman watching from the press box？

    To whom does it apply？

    Who is excited？  Might it be I？

    It's a pitcher's battle all the way——a duel——

    a catcher's， as， with cruel

    puma paw， Elston Howard lumbers lightly

    back to plate.  （His spring

    de-winged a bat swing.）

    They have that killer instinct；

    yet Elston——whose catching

    arm has hurt them all with the bat——

    when questioned， says， unenviously，

    "I'm very satisfied.  We won."

    Shorn of the batting crown， says， "We"；

    robbed by a technicality.

    When three players on a side play three positions

    and modify conditions，

    the massive run need not be everything.

    "Going， going . . . "  Is

    it？  Roger Maris

    has it， running fast.  You will

    never see a finer catch.  Well . . .

    "Mickey， leaping like the devil"——why

    gild it， although deer sounds better——

    snares what was speeding towards its treetop nest，

    one-handing the souvenir-to-be

    meant to be caught by you or me.

    Assign Yogi Berra to Cape Canaveral；

    he could handle any missile.

    He is no feather.  "Strike！ . . . Strike two！"

    Fouled back.  A blur.

    It's gone.  You would infer

    that the bat had eyes.

    He put the wood to that one.

    Praised， Skowron says， "Thanks， Mel.

    I think I helped a little bit."

    All business， each， and modesty.

    Blanchard， Richardson， Kubek， Boyer.

    In that galaxy of nine， say which

    won the pennant？  Each.  It was he.

    Those two magnificent saves from the knee-throws

    by Boyer， finesses in twos——

    like Whitey's three kinds of pitch and pre-

    diagnosis

    with pick-off psychosis.

    Pitching is a large subject.

    Your arm， too true at first， can learn to

    catch your corners——even trouble

    Mickey Mantle.  （"Grazed a Yankee！

    My baby pitcher， Montejo！"

    With some pedagogy，

    you'll be tough， premature prodigy.）

    They crowd him and curve him and aim for the knees.  Trying

    indeed！  The secret implying：

    "I can stand here， bat held steady."

    One may suit him；

    none has hit him.

    Imponderables smite him.

    Muscle kinks， infections， spike wounds

    require food， rest， respite from ruffians.  （Drat it！

    Celebrity costs privacy！）

    Cow's milk， "tiger's milk，" soy milk， carrot juice，

    brewer's yeast （high-potency——

    concentrates presage victory

    sped by Luis Arroyo， Hector Lopez——

    deadly in a pinch.  And "Yes，

    it's work； I want you to bear down，

    but enjoy it

    while you're doing it."

    Mr. Houk and Mr. Sain，

    if you have a rummage sale，

    don't sell Roland Sheldon or Tom Tresh.

    Studded with stars in belt and crown，

    the Stadium is an adastrium.

    O flashing Orion，

    your stars are muscled like the lion.