Silent thunder.
I saw It.
I saw It with Erica and Ginger, and with Max, who issued several jaw-dropped "Whoaaaaa"'s, holding the note like he did a year ago while watching flyover exercises from a bigger-than-life Luke Air Force Base squadron in formation.
Maybe the most ridiculous thing about a Josh Hamilton Batting Practice Display is that since so many of his missiles explode like a perfectly struck tee shot, every once in a while he'll bump one off the end of the bat, and your eyes shift to the outfielder in whose direction the ball is traveling (it could be any one of them, from left center field to straightway right), and as you wait for him to trot in to haul the lazy fly in, or at worst camp under it in place to make the catch, instead you see the outfielder jog back toward the fence, basically a courtesy gesture as the mis-hit ball carries over the wall to keep the last several Hamilton shots company.
And then there are the pitches that Hamilton squares up on, the ones that cause you, involuntarily, to issue a "Whoaaaaa" in unison with your three-and-a-half-year-old son, with the same reaction of equal parts awe, adrenaline, and disbelief. The ones on which the outfielders stand as motionless and unneeded as they do on the requisite bunts that the Rangers' penciled number two hitter drops (and drops well) at the start of his rounds.
David Murphy (as I'd hoped) and Marlon Byrd, hitting in sequence with Hamilton, had the misfortune of having what were absolutely impressive BP sessions of their own look unjustly pedestrian in comparison to their teammate's, like watching Terrence Newman and Terrell Owens run a 40 alongside Deion Sanders.
The Hamilton swing is so devoid of effort, it makes no sense. You've seen the scout's comment about the "flat-out, God-given gasoline" that comes effortlessly out of Neftali Feliz's arm. Josh Hamilton endows his baseball bat with a flat-out, God-given thunderstorm. A nearly silent thunderstorm, somehow.
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(c) Jamey Newberg
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