There were a couple moments on the field that Wednesday night.
They happened before the champion hats and shirts got handed out, before the shortstop proposed to his girlfriend on the field, before all the articles were posted on all the websites.
When the second baseman threw the batter out, clinching the game, series, season, that was when these moments happened.
One player soared off the ground, his body expanding into a huge, euphoric Y-shape. Other players blew out of the bullpen, running over the field in an unstoppable, elated mass. Arms went up in the air, mouthes opened wide, feet lifted off the earth. A bug in the grass would have surely seen more cleats above the ground than on it. And you wouldn’t be crazy to think joy like this could light up a whole city.
Violence, we know, is a powerful force. But so, too, is joy. It doesn’t seem to comply with gravity or physics or rules of decorum. It surges, expands, explodes on its own current.
The players got their hats and shirts, the shortstop got engaged, the articles got posted. But there were a few moments on the field that Wednesday night where you could see that joy, too, is a powerful force.