An excerpt from my first novel, FRESH KILLS, published in 2008, in which the narrator shares his thoughts following a Carlos Delgado walk-off HR:
“I’d seen enough of Delgado’s moon shots to imagine the home run well enough. The ball an aspirin-sized dot in the night sky, unstoppable, unalterable, soaring over the field, the fence, the stands and out into the parking lot. Sheer bedlam at Shea. Ecstatic teammates leaping up the dugout steps. Delgado oblivious to all of it, his cool conqueror’s glare fixed on the ball the whole way, as if the hit not only won the night’s game, but exacted some kind of primordial, private vengeance he’d sworn to reap. He hit home runs the way they ought to be hit. High and far and long, leaving no question. He took someone else’s best shot and beat a perfect, pure, victorious moment out of it, a moment went everything went right.
“I unlocked the car, cheered more than any grown man with dead parents had a right to be by a day old baseball game. I wondered if I was losing my mind, and how much further I had to go before I got it overwith. I thought maybe I was such a fan of Carlos Delgado and his team because we all took the game of baseball way too seriously.”