The PrescientFrom a park bench cloaked in the deep shadow of night, I observed the progress of the quasi-organized brawl these people called baseball, a neighborhood game of frequent bawdy disputes, often resolved just short of mayhem. Despite the throbbing pain occasioned by bright, glaring pole lamps, only marginally eased by heavily smoked glasses, the raucous vigor and raw emotions of the rowdy participants were ambrosia, feeding my vortex, easing the gnawing of a voracious hunger and restoring my pyranic energy sufficiently to dull the edge of my depression, a condition I often suffer.
Yet even the massed force of those straining, sweating, cursing young men on the field would not sate my appetite—not completely. For that, I required an intimate confrontation with the tall, wiry youn
