I was standing on the side of a grassy baseball field where a baseball game was taking place. A black-haired fellow (about 30 years old) was sitting on my left. On friendly terms, we were having a conversation about the game.

Finally he stood and walked over to the batter's box to take his turn at bat. I was surprised, because I hadn't known he was in the game. I was more surprised when he got a hit and went to first base. But I was most surprised when I stood up next and headed to the batter's box myself, somehow knowing it was my turn to bat.

As I walked, I turned to other people on the sidelines and asked how many outs there were. I was unsure whether there were one or two, but seeing everyone holding up one finger, I concluded there was only one out. That made me feel better, since I thought even if I didn't get on base, there would still be hope.

Even though I hadn't played baseball in a long time, I wasn't skittish. I knew I might not get a hit, but I wasn't worried.

It was difficult to see the home plate because it wasn't well marked in the grass. Rather ostentatiously I tapped my bat on the plate, then crouched low, waiting for the pitch. The pitcher didn't wait long, and I watched the ball speed toward me. I kept my eyes fixed on the ball, saw that it was high and outside, and watched it pass by. The umpire called it a ball.

The pitcher set to throw again. Again I watched the ball travel toward me, but this time I saw that it was in the strike zone. Without hesitation I swung and connected. It was almost immediately clear that it was a home run. I trotted around the bases, satisfied with my performance. I knew everyone watching was impressed.