Contact   It happens sometimes, but it cannot be predicted: the perfect marriage of pitch and swing. Only in retrospect, the seams on the ball signaled their story, the itch of intention became its own scratch, the bat was alive, it knew what to do, and you were the swing and the swing was you — just that was enough, the melted moment. And who could describe the sweet certainty, the sweet spot of the barrel of the bat achieving its purpose, effortless — POCK — bat meets ball. You are not even you. You believe.     © Michael Fleming Brattleboro, Vermont July 2013