The bases are loaded in the bottom of the second. Mets shortstop Francisco Lindor, with his beautiful hair and crisp terrifying swing, is at the plate. The pitch from the Padres' Robbie Ray is a 92 mph sinker that he leaves up on the outer edge of the zone. Lindor stings it to the opposite field, and the ball towers up and out toward the right-field corner, where he is waiting. He is always waiting.
Fernando Tatis Jr., the king of the Robbin' Padres, with his flowing hair and his big face, does not fear the long ball. He is its god. Already, in this game, he has hit a home run, but that does not mean he will allow others the pleasure. No, he is the home run's master. He sees the ball off Lindor's bat threatening to become a grand slam, and he tracks it.
His legs race, his head craned toward the ball, his eyes on it. That is his ball. He knows it.
At the track, he leaps. His cleats fling dirt up around him as his momentum carries him toward the wall. All of his 6-foot-3 inches, all of his 217 pounds, stretch up, up, up. His glove reaches over the wall into his territory, the liminal space where home runs can be killed. Stretching, pressing himself outward as gravity tries her best to keep him from it, he just gets there. He lands back on the warning track, flipping his head up to face his teammates, his hat flying off and landing on the ground behind him. A cruel, cold, beautiful robber.
In the aftermath of brutal thievery, there is no cooler way to be than to just stand there, eyes empty, no smile, knowing that you have won. Fernando Tatis Jr., expressionless, flicks the glove on his left hand and, like a magic trick, the ball floats through the air and into his right hand. Francisco Lindor's beautiful grand slam, reduced to nothing but a third out.
And then, do you know what he did? Just out of spite, just because he could, when he came up in the top of the fifth inning, he hit another home run. Two home runs earned, one grand slam robbed. The Padres won, 5-2.
