Outside, the chaos of money changing hands, smell of hot fat, kids drumming on plastic barrels, cans, discreet scalpers with three down front, want some? Inside, the mystery of the still field, open like a chalice. The pitcher on the mound gathers himself, pauses, a long pause, lets go and the batter uncoils and the ball goes up, up, past vendors climbing tier on tier lofting red trays of cola, rafts of peanuts, silver boxes of hot dog suppers, past the exhortations to civility and moderation— the use of coarse language will result in immediate ejection from the ballpark— and the crowd begins to pulse anemone arms rising and falling harmonized by the play of running men. —EFQ

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