I don't even think I'm being mildly facetious when I say that was basically poetry in motion. You could literally picture the end result seconds before the potential infertility came to fruition because the ball almost seemed to become suspended in the air as if time were temporarily standing still to build up the anticipation for the inevitable nut shot. As far as completely incidental cup checks go, that was the cinematic version of being down three in the bottom of the ninth with two outs and the bases jacked. As soon as it left his hand you already knew the payoff wasn't going to leave you disappointed, but somehow it ended up being more satisfying than anyone could have possibly imagined. That outcome was no curveball, because watching that floater pitch slowly careen down towards his Scuffy McGee's as if it were in slow motion was like watching a rom-com in which a widely inaccurate changeup and a camera man's testicles were destined to end up eternally tied together forever. I honestly don't how something that worked out so perfectly wasn't scripted, because real life simply isn't supposed to provide such convenient conclusions. Tony might wake up in the middle of the night feeling that one from his cojones to his chest cavity. For the rest of us, however, that off-speed moose-knuckleball hit us directly in the feels and reminded us exactly what it was like to love......seeing invitees deliver ceremonial pitches from the rubber without having a clue as to which observers would be wise to keep their "head" on a swivel.
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