......................................................................................................................................................................................................................
 The pitcher surveys his territory. Cap low, hand clasping the ball within the dark tricky confines of his sweat soaked leather glove. The man with the bat, hat turned backwards, stick of Wrigley’s taunting his opponent, relaxed stance, bat swinging nonchalantly, a crooked squint beneath the Sunday morning shine. Backstop, crouched and ready, eyes narrowed, focused, unmoving; one signal, no; second signal, no; third signal, a nod of approval from the pitcher. The fielders, shuffle, hands ready; no need to put the gloves up to shield the sun, it’s behind them. The last batsman on 2nd, cautiously side-steps, his focus on the pitcher, fingertips caressing the earth, as he eases to third. The warlike, poised curl, as the pitcher winds up, silences the stoical fans. A cry from a distant football game, joined suddenly by the plucky singing of a jolly sparrow, ignites the flurry of physical annihilation. A cataclysmic sequence of metamorphosis unfolds before the batsman’s impassive gaze. From within the coiled cloud of potential energy a kinetic force explodes – the ball hurtles unrelentingly forward, a vacuum enshrouds the ball and the batsman, as a grunt emits from the spent force of the pitcher. The queue at the diminutive tea hut, huddled over their steaming, polystyrene cups, appear entranced by the American spectacle. The batsman’s trunk rotates his powerful arms to meet the lethal projectile and with a bone splintering crack the ball tears a graceful arc through the bright, wintry air. The waiting batsman, nervously, but enigmatically reaches his left arm up and over his head, as he envisages his own triumphant act of supremacy.  The batsman regally inspects the flight of the ball as the fielders scramble to reach its destination. Two fielders, legs pumping, on a collision course doomed to failure. The hitter, his destination nearing, red faced, determined and fast. A blur of indomitable force. The fielders collide, the ball escapes, is finally gathered and in an explosive moment shot towards the final base.  In a race for the prize, ball and batsman compete for home and the ceremonious embrace of glove and teammate. A dive; a gasp; a moment. Americanisation encapsulated on a frosty Sunday morning. The enthusiasm, a distinctly and solidly American institution exhibited gracefully and with delicate Britishness.   British   Baseball . American Idealism. This is England.

The pitcher surveys his territory. Cap low, hand clasping the ball within the dark tricky confines of his sweat soaked leather glove. The man with the bat, hat turned backwards, stick of Wrigley’s taunting his opponent, relaxed stance, bat swinging nonchalantly, a crooked squint beneath the Sunday morning shine. Backstop, crouched and ready, eyes narrowed, focused, unmoving; one signal, no; second signal, no; third signal, a nod of approval from the pitcher. The fielders, shuffle, hands ready; no need to put the gloves up to shield the sun, it’s behind them. The last batsman on 2nd, cautiously side-steps, his focus on the pitcher, fingertips caressing the earth, as he eases to third. The warlike, poised curl, as the pitcher winds up, silences the stoical fans. A cry from a distant football game, joined suddenly by the plucky singing of a jolly sparrow, ignites the flurry of physical annihilation. A cataclysmic sequence of metamorphosis unfolds before the batsman’s impassive gaze. From within the coiled cloud of potential energy a kinetic force explodes – the ball hurtles unrelentingly forward, a vacuum enshrouds the ball and the batsman, as a grunt emits from the spent force of the pitcher. The queue at the diminutive tea hut, huddled over their steaming, polystyrene cups, appear entranced by the American spectacle. The batsman’s trunk rotates his powerful arms to meet the lethal projectile and with a bone splintering crack the ball tears a graceful arc through the bright, wintry air. The waiting batsman, nervously, but enigmatically reaches his left arm up and over his head, as he envisages his own triumphant act of supremacy.

The batsman regally inspects the flight of the ball as the fielders scramble to reach its destination. Two fielders, legs pumping, on a collision course doomed to failure. The hitter, his destination nearing, red faced, determined and fast. A blur of indomitable force. The fielders collide, the ball escapes, is finally gathered and in an explosive moment shot towards the final base.

In a race for the prize, ball and batsman compete for home and the ceremonious embrace of glove and teammate. A dive; a gasp; a moment. Americanisation encapsulated on a frosty Sunday morning. The enthusiasm, a distinctly and solidly American institution exhibited gracefully and with delicate Britishness.

British Baseball. American Idealism. This is England.

 The pitcher surveys his territory. Cap low, hand clasping the ball within the dark tricky confines of his sweat soaked leather glove. The man with the bat, hat turned backwards, stick of Wrigley’s taunting his opponent, relaxed stance, bat swinging nonchalantly, a crooked squint beneath the Sunday morning shine. Backstop, crouched and ready, eyes narrowed, focused, unmoving; one signal, no; second signal, no; third signal, a nod of approval from the pitcher. The fielders, shuffle, hands ready; no need to put the gloves up to shield the sun, it’s behind them. The last batsman on 2nd, cautiously side-steps, his focus on the pitcher, fingertips caressing the earth, as he eases to third. The warlike, poised curl, as the pitcher winds up, silences the stoical fans. A cry from a distant football game, joined suddenly by the plucky singing of a jolly sparrow, ignites the flurry of physical annihilation. A cataclysmic sequence of metamorphosis unfolds before the batsman’s impassive gaze. From within the coiled cloud of potential energy a kinetic force explodes – the ball hurtles unrelentingly forward, a vacuum enshrouds the ball and the batsman, as a grunt emits from the spent force of the pitcher. The queue at the diminutive tea hut, huddled over their steaming, polystyrene cups, appear entranced by the American spectacle. The batsman’s trunk rotates his powerful arms to meet the lethal projectile and with a bone splintering crack the ball tears a graceful arc through the bright, wintry air. The waiting batsman, nervously, but enigmatically reaches his left arm up and over his head, as he envisages his own triumphant act of supremacy.  The batsman regally inspects the flight of the ball as the fielders scramble to reach its destination. Two fielders, legs pumping, on a collision course doomed to failure. The hitter, his destination nearing, red faced, determined and fast. A blur of indomitable force. The fielders collide, the ball escapes, is finally gathered and in an explosive moment shot towards the final base.  In a race for the prize, ball and batsman compete for home and the ceremonious embrace of glove and teammate. A dive; a gasp; a moment. Americanisation encapsulated on a frosty Sunday morning. The enthusiasm, a distinctly and solidly American institution exhibited gracefully and with delicate Britishness.   British   Baseball . American Idealism. This is England.

The pitcher surveys his territory. Cap low, hand clasping the ball within the dark tricky confines of his sweat soaked leather glove. The man with the bat, hat turned backwards, stick of Wrigley’s taunting his opponent, relaxed stance, bat swinging nonchalantly, a crooked squint beneath the Sunday morning shine. Backstop, crouched and ready, eyes narrowed, focused, unmoving; one signal, no; second signal, no; third signal, a nod of approval from the pitcher. The fielders, shuffle, hands ready; no need to put the gloves up to shield the sun, it’s behind them. The last batsman on 2nd, cautiously side-steps, his focus on the pitcher, fingertips caressing the earth, as he eases to third. The warlike, poised curl, as the pitcher winds up, silences the stoical fans. A cry from a distant football game, joined suddenly by the plucky singing of a jolly sparrow, ignites the flurry of physical annihilation. A cataclysmic sequence of metamorphosis unfolds before the batsman’s impassive gaze. From within the coiled cloud of potential energy a kinetic force explodes – the ball hurtles unrelentingly forward, a vacuum enshrouds the ball and the batsman, as a grunt emits from the spent force of the pitcher. The queue at the diminutive tea hut, huddled over their steaming, polystyrene cups, appear entranced by the American spectacle. The batsman’s trunk rotates his powerful arms to meet the lethal projectile and with a bone splintering crack the ball tears a graceful arc through the bright, wintry air. The waiting batsman, nervously, but enigmatically reaches his left arm up and over his head, as he envisages his own triumphant act of supremacy.

The batsman regally inspects the flight of the ball as the fielders scramble to reach its destination. Two fielders, legs pumping, on a collision course doomed to failure. The hitter, his destination nearing, red faced, determined and fast. A blur of indomitable force. The fielders collide, the ball escapes, is finally gathered and in an explosive moment shot towards the final base.

In a race for the prize, ball and batsman compete for home and the ceremonious embrace of glove and teammate. A dive; a gasp; a moment. Americanisation encapsulated on a frosty Sunday morning. The enthusiasm, a distinctly and solidly American institution exhibited gracefully and with delicate Britishness.

British Baseball. American Idealism. This is England.

 The pitcher surveys his territory. Cap low, hand clasping the ball within the dark tricky confines of his sweat soaked leather glove. The man with the bat, hat turned backwards, stick of Wrigley’s taunting his opponent, relaxed stance, bat swinging nonchalantly, a crooked squint beneath the Sunday morning shine. Backstop, crouched and ready, eyes narrowed, focused, unmoving; one signal, no; second signal, no; third signal, a nod of approval from the pitcher. The fielders, shuffle, hands ready; no need to put the gloves up to shield the sun, it’s behind them. The last batsman on 2nd, cautiously side-steps, his focus on the pitcher, fingertips caressing the earth, as he eases to third. The warlike, poised curl, as the pitcher winds up, silences the stoical fans. A cry from a distant football game, joined suddenly by the plucky singing of a jolly sparrow, ignites the flurry of physical annihilation. A cataclysmic sequence of metamorphosis unfolds before the batsman’s impassive gaze. From within the coiled cloud of potential energy a kinetic force explodes – the ball hurtles unrelentingly forward, a vacuum enshrouds the ball and the batsman, as a grunt emits from the spent force of the pitcher. The queue at the diminutive tea hut, huddled over their steaming, polystyrene cups, appear entranced by the American spectacle. The batsman’s trunk rotates his powerful arms to meet the lethal projectile and with a bone splintering crack the ball tears a graceful arc through the bright, wintry air. The waiting batsman, nervously, but enigmatically reaches his left arm up and over his head, as he envisages his own triumphant act of supremacy.  The batsman regally inspects the flight of the ball as the fielders scramble to reach its destination. Two fielders, legs pumping, on a collision course doomed to failure. The hitter, his destination nearing, red faced, determined and fast. A blur of indomitable force. The fielders collide, the ball escapes, is finally gathered and in an explosive moment shot towards the final base.  In a race for the prize, ball and batsman compete for home and the ceremonious embrace of glove and teammate. A dive; a gasp; a moment. Americanisation encapsulated on a frosty Sunday morning. The enthusiasm, a distinctly and solidly American institution exhibited gracefully and with delicate Britishness.   British   Baseball . American Idealism. This is England.

The pitcher surveys his territory. Cap low, hand clasping the ball within the dark tricky confines of his sweat soaked leather glove. The man with the bat, hat turned backwards, stick of Wrigley’s taunting his opponent, relaxed stance, bat swinging nonchalantly, a crooked squint beneath the Sunday morning shine. Backstop, crouched and ready, eyes narrowed, focused, unmoving; one signal, no; second signal, no; third signal, a nod of approval from the pitcher. The fielders, shuffle, hands ready; no need to put the gloves up to shield the sun, it’s behind them. The last batsman on 2nd, cautiously side-steps, his focus on the pitcher, fingertips caressing the earth, as he eases to third. The warlike, poised curl, as the pitcher winds up, silences the stoical fans. A cry from a distant football game, joined suddenly by the plucky singing of a jolly sparrow, ignites the flurry of physical annihilation. A cataclysmic sequence of metamorphosis unfolds before the batsman’s impassive gaze. From within the coiled cloud of potential energy a kinetic force explodes – the ball hurtles unrelentingly forward, a vacuum enshrouds the ball and the batsman, as a grunt emits from the spent force of the pitcher. The queue at the diminutive tea hut, huddled over their steaming, polystyrene cups, appear entranced by the American spectacle. The batsman’s trunk rotates his powerful arms to meet the lethal projectile and with a bone splintering crack the ball tears a graceful arc through the bright, wintry air. The waiting batsman, nervously, but enigmatically reaches his left arm up and over his head, as he envisages his own triumphant act of supremacy.

The batsman regally inspects the flight of the ball as the fielders scramble to reach its destination. Two fielders, legs pumping, on a collision course doomed to failure. The hitter, his destination nearing, red faced, determined and fast. A blur of indomitable force. The fielders collide, the ball escapes, is finally gathered and in an explosive moment shot towards the final base.

In a race for the prize, ball and batsman compete for home and the ceremonious embrace of glove and teammate. A dive; a gasp; a moment. Americanisation encapsulated on a frosty Sunday morning. The enthusiasm, a distinctly and solidly American institution exhibited gracefully and with delicate Britishness.

British Baseball. American Idealism. This is England.

 The pitcher surveys his territory. Cap low, hand clasping the ball within the dark tricky confines of his sweat soaked leather glove. The man with the bat, hat turned backwards, stick of Wrigley’s taunting his opponent, relaxed stance, bat swinging nonchalantly, a crooked squint beneath the Sunday morning shine. Backstop, crouched and ready, eyes narrowed, focused, unmoving; one signal, no; second signal, no; third signal, a nod of approval from the pitcher. The fielders, shuffle, hands ready; no need to put the gloves up to shield the sun, it’s behind them. The last batsman on 2nd, cautiously side-steps, his focus on the pitcher, fingertips caressing the earth, as he eases to third. The warlike, poised curl, as the pitcher winds up, silences the stoical fans. A cry from a distant football game, joined suddenly by the plucky singing of a jolly sparrow, ignites the flurry of physical annihilation. A cataclysmic sequence of metamorphosis unfolds before the batsman’s impassive gaze. From within the coiled cloud of potential energy a kinetic force explodes – the ball hurtles unrelentingly forward, a vacuum enshrouds the ball and the batsman, as a grunt emits from the spent force of the pitcher. The queue at the diminutive tea hut, huddled over their steaming, polystyrene cups, appear entranced by the American spectacle. The batsman’s trunk rotates his powerful arms to meet the lethal projectile and with a bone splintering crack the ball tears a graceful arc through the bright, wintry air. The waiting batsman, nervously, but enigmatically reaches his left arm up and over his head, as he envisages his own triumphant act of supremacy.  The batsman regally inspects the flight of the ball as the fielders scramble to reach its destination. Two fielders, legs pumping, on a collision course doomed to failure. The hitter, his destination nearing, red faced, determined and fast. A blur of indomitable force. The fielders collide, the ball escapes, is finally gathered and in an explosive moment shot towards the final base.  In a race for the prize, ball and batsman compete for home and the ceremonious embrace of glove and teammate. A dive; a gasp; a moment. Americanisation encapsulated on a frosty Sunday morning. The enthusiasm, a distinctly and solidly American institution exhibited gracefully and with delicate Britishness.   British   Baseball . American Idealism. This is England.

The pitcher surveys his territory. Cap low, hand clasping the ball within the dark tricky confines of his sweat soaked leather glove. The man with the bat, hat turned backwards, stick of Wrigley’s taunting his opponent, relaxed stance, bat swinging nonchalantly, a crooked squint beneath the Sunday morning shine. Backstop, crouched and ready, eyes narrowed, focused, unmoving; one signal, no; second signal, no; third signal, a nod of approval from the pitcher. The fielders, shuffle, hands ready; no need to put the gloves up to shield the sun, it’s behind them. The last batsman on 2nd, cautiously side-steps, his focus on the pitcher, fingertips caressing the earth, as he eases to third. The warlike, poised curl, as the pitcher winds up, silences the stoical fans. A cry from a distant football game, joined suddenly by the plucky singing of a jolly sparrow, ignites the flurry of physical annihilation. A cataclysmic sequence of metamorphosis unfolds before the batsman’s impassive gaze. From within the coiled cloud of potential energy a kinetic force explodes – the ball hurtles unrelentingly forward, a vacuum enshrouds the ball and the batsman, as a grunt emits from the spent force of the pitcher. The queue at the diminutive tea hut, huddled over their steaming, polystyrene cups, appear entranced by the American spectacle. The batsman’s trunk rotates his powerful arms to meet the lethal projectile and with a bone splintering crack the ball tears a graceful arc through the bright, wintry air. The waiting batsman, nervously, but enigmatically reaches his left arm up and over his head, as he envisages his own triumphant act of supremacy.

The batsman regally inspects the flight of the ball as the fielders scramble to reach its destination. Two fielders, legs pumping, on a collision course doomed to failure. The hitter, his destination nearing, red faced, determined and fast. A blur of indomitable force. The fielders collide, the ball escapes, is finally gathered and in an explosive moment shot towards the final base.

In a race for the prize, ball and batsman compete for home and the ceremonious embrace of glove and teammate. A dive; a gasp; a moment. Americanisation encapsulated on a frosty Sunday morning. The enthusiasm, a distinctly and solidly American institution exhibited gracefully and with delicate Britishness.

British Baseball. American Idealism. This is England.

 The pitcher surveys his territory. Cap low, hand clasping the ball within the dark tricky confines of his sweat soaked leather glove. The man with the bat, hat turned backwards, stick of Wrigley’s taunting his opponent, relaxed stance, bat swinging nonchalantly, a crooked squint beneath the Sunday morning shine. Backstop, crouched and ready, eyes narrowed, focused, unmoving; one signal, no; second signal, no; third signal, a nod of approval from the pitcher. The fielders, shuffle, hands ready; no need to put the gloves up to shield the sun, it’s behind them. The last batsman on 2nd, cautiously side-steps, his focus on the pitcher, fingertips caressing the earth, as he eases to third. The warlike, poised curl, as the pitcher winds up, silences the stoical fans. A cry from a distant football game, joined suddenly by the plucky singing of a jolly sparrow, ignites the flurry of physical annihilation. A cataclysmic sequence of metamorphosis unfolds before the batsman’s impassive gaze. From within the coiled cloud of potential energy a kinetic force explodes – the ball hurtles unrelentingly forward, a vacuum enshrouds the ball and the batsman, as a grunt emits from the spent force of the pitcher. The queue at the diminutive tea hut, huddled over their steaming, polystyrene cups, appear entranced by the American spectacle. The batsman’s trunk rotates his powerful arms to meet the lethal projectile and with a bone splintering crack the ball tears a graceful arc through the bright, wintry air. The waiting batsman, nervously, but enigmatically reaches his left arm up and over his head, as he envisages his own triumphant act of supremacy.  The batsman regally inspects the flight of the ball as the fielders scramble to reach its destination. Two fielders, legs pumping, on a collision course doomed to failure. The hitter, his destination nearing, red faced, determined and fast. A blur of indomitable force. The fielders collide, the ball escapes, is finally gathered and in an explosive moment shot towards the final base.  In a race for the prize, ball and batsman compete for home and the ceremonious embrace of glove and teammate. A dive; a gasp; a moment. Americanisation encapsulated on a frosty Sunday morning. The enthusiasm, a distinctly and solidly American institution exhibited gracefully and with delicate Britishness.   British   Baseball . American Idealism. This is England.

The pitcher surveys his territory. Cap low, hand clasping the ball within the dark tricky confines of his sweat soaked leather glove. The man with the bat, hat turned backwards, stick of Wrigley’s taunting his opponent, relaxed stance, bat swinging nonchalantly, a crooked squint beneath the Sunday morning shine. Backstop, crouched and ready, eyes narrowed, focused, unmoving; one signal, no; second signal, no; third signal, a nod of approval from the pitcher. The fielders, shuffle, hands ready; no need to put the gloves up to shield the sun, it’s behind them. The last batsman on 2nd, cautiously side-steps, his focus on the pitcher, fingertips caressing the earth, as he eases to third. The warlike, poised curl, as the pitcher winds up, silences the stoical fans. A cry from a distant football game, joined suddenly by the plucky singing of a jolly sparrow, ignites the flurry of physical annihilation. A cataclysmic sequence of metamorphosis unfolds before the batsman’s impassive gaze. From within the coiled cloud of potential energy a kinetic force explodes – the ball hurtles unrelentingly forward, a vacuum enshrouds the ball and the batsman, as a grunt emits from the spent force of the pitcher. The queue at the diminutive tea hut, huddled over their steaming, polystyrene cups, appear entranced by the American spectacle. The batsman’s trunk rotates his powerful arms to meet the lethal projectile and with a bone splintering crack the ball tears a graceful arc through the bright, wintry air. The waiting batsman, nervously, but enigmatically reaches his left arm up and over his head, as he envisages his own triumphant act of supremacy.

The batsman regally inspects the flight of the ball as the fielders scramble to reach its destination. Two fielders, legs pumping, on a collision course doomed to failure. The hitter, his destination nearing, red faced, determined and fast. A blur of indomitable force. The fielders collide, the ball escapes, is finally gathered and in an explosive moment shot towards the final base.

In a race for the prize, ball and batsman compete for home and the ceremonious embrace of glove and teammate. A dive; a gasp; a moment. Americanisation encapsulated on a frosty Sunday morning. The enthusiasm, a distinctly and solidly American institution exhibited gracefully and with delicate Britishness.

British Baseball. American Idealism. This is England.

 The pitcher surveys his territory. Cap low, hand clasping the ball within the dark tricky confines of his sweat soaked leather glove. The man with the bat, hat turned backwards, stick of Wrigley’s taunting his opponent, relaxed stance, bat swinging nonchalantly, a crooked squint beneath the Sunday morning shine. Backstop, crouched and ready, eyes narrowed, focused, unmoving; one signal, no; second signal, no; third signal, a nod of approval from the pitcher. The fielders, shuffle, hands ready; no need to put the gloves up to shield the sun, it’s behind them. The last batsman on 2nd, cautiously side-steps, his focus on the pitcher, fingertips caressing the earth, as he eases to third. The warlike, poised curl, as the pitcher winds up, silences the stoical fans. A cry from a distant football game, joined suddenly by the plucky singing of a jolly sparrow, ignites the flurry of physical annihilation. A cataclysmic sequence of metamorphosis unfolds before the batsman’s impassive gaze. From within the coiled cloud of potential energy a kinetic force explodes – the ball hurtles unrelentingly forward, a vacuum enshrouds the ball and the batsman, as a grunt emits from the spent force of the pitcher. The queue at the diminutive tea hut, huddled over their steaming, polystyrene cups, appear entranced by the American spectacle. The batsman’s trunk rotates his powerful arms to meet the lethal projectile and with a bone splintering crack the ball tears a graceful arc through the bright, wintry air. The waiting batsman, nervously, but enigmatically reaches his left arm up and over his head, as he envisages his own triumphant act of supremacy.  The batsman regally inspects the flight of the ball as the fielders scramble to reach its destination. Two fielders, legs pumping, on a collision course doomed to failure. The hitter, his destination nearing, red faced, determined and fast. A blur of indomitable force. The fielders collide, the ball escapes, is finally gathered and in an explosive moment shot towards the final base.  In a race for the prize, ball and batsman compete for home and the ceremonious embrace of glove and teammate. A dive; a gasp; a moment. Americanisation encapsulated on a frosty Sunday morning. The enthusiasm, a distinctly and solidly American institution exhibited gracefully and with delicate Britishness.   British   Baseball . American Idealism. This is England.

The pitcher surveys his territory. Cap low, hand clasping the ball within the dark tricky confines of his sweat soaked leather glove. The man with the bat, hat turned backwards, stick of Wrigley’s taunting his opponent, relaxed stance, bat swinging nonchalantly, a crooked squint beneath the Sunday morning shine. Backstop, crouched and ready, eyes narrowed, focused, unmoving; one signal, no; second signal, no; third signal, a nod of approval from the pitcher. The fielders, shuffle, hands ready; no need to put the gloves up to shield the sun, it’s behind them. The last batsman on 2nd, cautiously side-steps, his focus on the pitcher, fingertips caressing the earth, as he eases to third. The warlike, poised curl, as the pitcher winds up, silences the stoical fans. A cry from a distant football game, joined suddenly by the plucky singing of a jolly sparrow, ignites the flurry of physical annihilation. A cataclysmic sequence of metamorphosis unfolds before the batsman’s impassive gaze. From within the coiled cloud of potential energy a kinetic force explodes – the ball hurtles unrelentingly forward, a vacuum enshrouds the ball and the batsman, as a grunt emits from the spent force of the pitcher. The queue at the diminutive tea hut, huddled over their steaming, polystyrene cups, appear entranced by the American spectacle. The batsman’s trunk rotates his powerful arms to meet the lethal projectile and with a bone splintering crack the ball tears a graceful arc through the bright, wintry air. The waiting batsman, nervously, but enigmatically reaches his left arm up and over his head, as he envisages his own triumphant act of supremacy.

The batsman regally inspects the flight of the ball as the fielders scramble to reach its destination. Two fielders, legs pumping, on a collision course doomed to failure. The hitter, his destination nearing, red faced, determined and fast. A blur of indomitable force. The fielders collide, the ball escapes, is finally gathered and in an explosive moment shot towards the final base.

In a race for the prize, ball and batsman compete for home and the ceremonious embrace of glove and teammate. A dive; a gasp; a moment. Americanisation encapsulated on a frosty Sunday morning. The enthusiasm, a distinctly and solidly American institution exhibited gracefully and with delicate Britishness.

British Baseball. American Idealism. This is England.

 The pitcher surveys his territory. Cap low, hand clasping the ball within the dark tricky confines of his sweat soaked leather glove. The man with the bat, hat turned backwards, stick of Wrigley’s taunting his opponent, relaxed stance, bat swinging nonchalantly, a crooked squint beneath the Sunday morning shine. Backstop, crouched and ready, eyes narrowed, focused, unmoving; one signal, no; second signal, no; third signal, a nod of approval from the pitcher. The fielders, shuffle, hands ready; no need to put the gloves up to shield the sun, it’s behind them. The last batsman on 2nd, cautiously side-steps, his focus on the pitcher, fingertips caressing the earth, as he eases to third. The warlike, poised curl, as the pitcher winds up, silences the stoical fans. A cry from a distant football game, joined suddenly by the plucky singing of a jolly sparrow, ignites the flurry of physical annihilation. A cataclysmic sequence of metamorphosis unfolds before the batsman’s impassive gaze. From within the coiled cloud of potential energy a kinetic force explodes – the ball hurtles unrelentingly forward, a vacuum enshrouds the ball and the batsman, as a grunt emits from the spent force of the pitcher. The queue at the diminutive tea hut, huddled over their steaming, polystyrene cups, appear entranced by the American spectacle. The batsman’s trunk rotates his powerful arms to meet the lethal projectile and with a bone splintering crack the ball tears a graceful arc through the bright, wintry air. The waiting batsman, nervously, but enigmatically reaches his left arm up and over his head, as he envisages his own triumphant act of supremacy.  The batsman regally inspects the flight of the ball as the fielders scramble to reach its destination. Two fielders, legs pumping, on a collision course doomed to failure. The hitter, his destination nearing, red faced, determined and fast. A blur of indomitable force. The fielders collide, the ball escapes, is finally gathered and in an explosive moment shot towards the final base.  In a race for the prize, ball and batsman compete for home and the ceremonious embrace of glove and teammate. A dive; a gasp; a moment. Americanisation encapsulated on a frosty Sunday morning. The enthusiasm, a distinctly and solidly American institution exhibited gracefully and with delicate Britishness.   British   Baseball . American Idealism. This is England.

The pitcher surveys his territory. Cap low, hand clasping the ball within the dark tricky confines of his sweat soaked leather glove. The man with the bat, hat turned backwards, stick of Wrigley’s taunting his opponent, relaxed stance, bat swinging nonchalantly, a crooked squint beneath the Sunday morning shine. Backstop, crouched and ready, eyes narrowed, focused, unmoving; one signal, no; second signal, no; third signal, a nod of approval from the pitcher. The fielders, shuffle, hands ready; no need to put the gloves up to shield the sun, it’s behind them. The last batsman on 2nd, cautiously side-steps, his focus on the pitcher, fingertips caressing the earth, as he eases to third. The warlike, poised curl, as the pitcher winds up, silences the stoical fans. A cry from a distant football game, joined suddenly by the plucky singing of a jolly sparrow, ignites the flurry of physical annihilation. A cataclysmic sequence of metamorphosis unfolds before the batsman’s impassive gaze. From within the coiled cloud of potential energy a kinetic force explodes – the ball hurtles unrelentingly forward, a vacuum enshrouds the ball and the batsman, as a grunt emits from the spent force of the pitcher. The queue at the diminutive tea hut, huddled over their steaming, polystyrene cups, appear entranced by the American spectacle. The batsman’s trunk rotates his powerful arms to meet the lethal projectile and with a bone splintering crack the ball tears a graceful arc through the bright, wintry air. The waiting batsman, nervously, but enigmatically reaches his left arm up and over his head, as he envisages his own triumphant act of supremacy.

The batsman regally inspects the flight of the ball as the fielders scramble to reach its destination. Two fielders, legs pumping, on a collision course doomed to failure. The hitter, his destination nearing, red faced, determined and fast. A blur of indomitable force. The fielders collide, the ball escapes, is finally gathered and in an explosive moment shot towards the final base.

In a race for the prize, ball and batsman compete for home and the ceremonious embrace of glove and teammate. A dive; a gasp; a moment. Americanisation encapsulated on a frosty Sunday morning. The enthusiasm, a distinctly and solidly American institution exhibited gracefully and with delicate Britishness.

British Baseball. American Idealism. This is England.

 The pitcher surveys his territory. Cap low, hand clasping the ball within the dark tricky confines of his sweat soaked leather glove. The man with the bat, hat turned backwards, stick of Wrigley’s taunting his opponent, relaxed stance, bat swinging nonchalantly, a crooked squint beneath the Sunday morning shine. Backstop, crouched and ready, eyes narrowed, focused, unmoving; one signal, no; second signal, no; third signal, a nod of approval from the pitcher. The fielders, shuffle, hands ready; no need to put the gloves up to shield the sun, it’s behind them. The last batsman on 2nd, cautiously side-steps, his focus on the pitcher, fingertips caressing the earth, as he eases to third. The warlike, poised curl, as the pitcher winds up, silences the stoical fans. A cry from a distant football game, joined suddenly by the plucky singing of a jolly sparrow, ignites the flurry of physical annihilation. A cataclysmic sequence of metamorphosis unfolds before the batsman’s impassive gaze. From within the coiled cloud of potential energy a kinetic force explodes – the ball hurtles unrelentingly forward, a vacuum enshrouds the ball and the batsman, as a grunt emits from the spent force of the pitcher. The queue at the diminutive tea hut, huddled over their steaming, polystyrene cups, appear entranced by the American spectacle. The batsman’s trunk rotates his powerful arms to meet the lethal projectile and with a bone splintering crack the ball tears a graceful arc through the bright, wintry air. The waiting batsman, nervously, but enigmatically reaches his left arm up and over his head, as he envisages his own triumphant act of supremacy.  The batsman regally inspects the flight of the ball as the fielders scramble to reach its destination. Two fielders, legs pumping, on a collision course doomed to failure. The hitter, his destination nearing, red faced, determined and fast. A blur of indomitable force. The fielders collide, the ball escapes, is finally gathered and in an explosive moment shot towards the final base.  In a race for the prize, ball and batsman compete for home and the ceremonious embrace of glove and teammate. A dive; a gasp; a moment. Americanisation encapsulated on a frosty Sunday morning. The enthusiasm, a distinctly and solidly American institution exhibited gracefully and with delicate Britishness.   British   Baseball . American Idealism. This is England.

The pitcher surveys his territory. Cap low, hand clasping the ball within the dark tricky confines of his sweat soaked leather glove. The man with the bat, hat turned backwards, stick of Wrigley’s taunting his opponent, relaxed stance, bat swinging nonchalantly, a crooked squint beneath the Sunday morning shine. Backstop, crouched and ready, eyes narrowed, focused, unmoving; one signal, no; second signal, no; third signal, a nod of approval from the pitcher. The fielders, shuffle, hands ready; no need to put the gloves up to shield the sun, it’s behind them. The last batsman on 2nd, cautiously side-steps, his focus on the pitcher, fingertips caressing the earth, as he eases to third. The warlike, poised curl, as the pitcher winds up, silences the stoical fans. A cry from a distant football game, joined suddenly by the plucky singing of a jolly sparrow, ignites the flurry of physical annihilation. A cataclysmic sequence of metamorphosis unfolds before the batsman’s impassive gaze. From within the coiled cloud of potential energy a kinetic force explodes – the ball hurtles unrelentingly forward, a vacuum enshrouds the ball and the batsman, as a grunt emits from the spent force of the pitcher. The queue at the diminutive tea hut, huddled over their steaming, polystyrene cups, appear entranced by the American spectacle. The batsman’s trunk rotates his powerful arms to meet the lethal projectile and with a bone splintering crack the ball tears a graceful arc through the bright, wintry air. The waiting batsman, nervously, but enigmatically reaches his left arm up and over his head, as he envisages his own triumphant act of supremacy.

The batsman regally inspects the flight of the ball as the fielders scramble to reach its destination. Two fielders, legs pumping, on a collision course doomed to failure. The hitter, his destination nearing, red faced, determined and fast. A blur of indomitable force. The fielders collide, the ball escapes, is finally gathered and in an explosive moment shot towards the final base.

In a race for the prize, ball and batsman compete for home and the ceremonious embrace of glove and teammate. A dive; a gasp; a moment. Americanisation encapsulated on a frosty Sunday morning. The enthusiasm, a distinctly and solidly American institution exhibited gracefully and with delicate Britishness.

British Baseball. American Idealism. This is England.

 The pitcher surveys his territory. Cap low, hand clasping the ball within the dark tricky confines of his sweat soaked leather glove. The man with the bat, hat turned backwards, stick of Wrigley’s taunting his opponent, relaxed stance, bat swinging nonchalantly, a crooked squint beneath the Sunday morning shine. Backstop, crouched and ready, eyes narrowed, focused, unmoving; one signal, no; second signal, no; third signal, a nod of approval from the pitcher. The fielders, shuffle, hands ready; no need to put the gloves up to shield the sun, it’s behind them. The last batsman on 2nd, cautiously side-steps, his focus on the pitcher, fingertips caressing the earth, as he eases to third. The warlike, poised curl, as the pitcher winds up, silences the stoical fans. A cry from a distant football game, joined suddenly by the plucky singing of a jolly sparrow, ignites the flurry of physical annihilation. A cataclysmic sequence of metamorphosis unfolds before the batsman’s impassive gaze. From within the coiled cloud of potential energy a kinetic force explodes – the ball hurtles unrelentingly forward, a vacuum enshrouds the ball and the batsman, as a grunt emits from the spent force of the pitcher. The queue at the diminutive tea hut, huddled over their steaming, polystyrene cups, appear entranced by the American spectacle. The batsman’s trunk rotates his powerful arms to meet the lethal projectile and with a bone splintering crack the ball tears a graceful arc through the bright, wintry air. The waiting batsman, nervously, but enigmatically reaches his left arm up and over his head, as he envisages his own triumphant act of supremacy.  The batsman regally inspects the flight of the ball as the fielders scramble to reach its destination. Two fielders, legs pumping, on a collision course doomed to failure. The hitter, his destination nearing, red faced, determined and fast. A blur of indomitable force. The fielders collide, the ball escapes, is finally gathered and in an explosive moment shot towards the final base.  In a race for the prize, ball and batsman compete for home and the ceremonious embrace of glove and teammate. A dive; a gasp; a moment. Americanisation encapsulated on a frosty Sunday morning. The enthusiasm, a distinctly and solidly American institution exhibited gracefully and with delicate Britishness.   British   Baseball . American Idealism. This is England.

The pitcher surveys his territory. Cap low, hand clasping the ball within the dark tricky confines of his sweat soaked leather glove. The man with the bat, hat turned backwards, stick of Wrigley’s taunting his opponent, relaxed stance, bat swinging nonchalantly, a crooked squint beneath the Sunday morning shine. Backstop, crouched and ready, eyes narrowed, focused, unmoving; one signal, no; second signal, no; third signal, a nod of approval from the pitcher. The fielders, shuffle, hands ready; no need to put the gloves up to shield the sun, it’s behind them. The last batsman on 2nd, cautiously side-steps, his focus on the pitcher, fingertips caressing the earth, as he eases to third. The warlike, poised curl, as the pitcher winds up, silences the stoical fans. A cry from a distant football game, joined suddenly by the plucky singing of a jolly sparrow, ignites the flurry of physical annihilation. A cataclysmic sequence of metamorphosis unfolds before the batsman’s impassive gaze. From within the coiled cloud of potential energy a kinetic force explodes – the ball hurtles unrelentingly forward, a vacuum enshrouds the ball and the batsman, as a grunt emits from the spent force of the pitcher. The queue at the diminutive tea hut, huddled over their steaming, polystyrene cups, appear entranced by the American spectacle. The batsman’s trunk rotates his powerful arms to meet the lethal projectile and with a bone splintering crack the ball tears a graceful arc through the bright, wintry air. The waiting batsman, nervously, but enigmatically reaches his left arm up and over his head, as he envisages his own triumphant act of supremacy.

The batsman regally inspects the flight of the ball as the fielders scramble to reach its destination. Two fielders, legs pumping, on a collision course doomed to failure. The hitter, his destination nearing, red faced, determined and fast. A blur of indomitable force. The fielders collide, the ball escapes, is finally gathered and in an explosive moment shot towards the final base.

In a race for the prize, ball and batsman compete for home and the ceremonious embrace of glove and teammate. A dive; a gasp; a moment. Americanisation encapsulated on a frosty Sunday morning. The enthusiasm, a distinctly and solidly American institution exhibited gracefully and with delicate Britishness.

British Baseball. American Idealism. This is England.

 The pitcher surveys his territory. Cap low, hand clasping the ball within the dark tricky confines of his sweat soaked leather glove. The man with the bat, hat turned backwards, stick of Wrigley’s taunting his opponent, relaxed stance, bat swinging nonchalantly, a crooked squint beneath the Sunday morning shine. Backstop, crouched and ready, eyes narrowed, focused, unmoving; one signal, no; second signal, no; third signal, a nod of approval from the pitcher. The fielders, shuffle, hands ready; no need to put the gloves up to shield the sun, it’s behind them. The last batsman on 2nd, cautiously side-steps, his focus on the pitcher, fingertips caressing the earth, as he eases to third. The warlike, poised curl, as the pitcher winds up, silences the stoical fans. A cry from a distant football game, joined suddenly by the plucky singing of a jolly sparrow, ignites the flurry of physical annihilation. A cataclysmic sequence of metamorphosis unfolds before the batsman’s impassive gaze. From within the coiled cloud of potential energy a kinetic force explodes – the ball hurtles unrelentingly forward, a vacuum enshrouds the ball and the batsman, as a grunt emits from the spent force of the pitcher. The queue at the diminutive tea hut, huddled over their steaming, polystyrene cups, appear entranced by the American spectacle. The batsman’s trunk rotates his powerful arms to meet the lethal projectile and with a bone splintering crack the ball tears a graceful arc through the bright, wintry air. The waiting batsman, nervously, but enigmatically reaches his left arm up and over his head, as he envisages his own triumphant act of supremacy.  The batsman regally inspects the flight of the ball as the fielders scramble to reach its destination. Two fielders, legs pumping, on a collision course doomed to failure. The hitter, his destination nearing, red faced, determined and fast. A blur of indomitable force. The fielders collide, the ball escapes, is finally gathered and in an explosive moment shot towards the final base.  In a race for the prize, ball and batsman compete for home and the ceremonious embrace of glove and teammate. A dive; a gasp; a moment. Americanisation encapsulated on a frosty Sunday morning. The enthusiasm, a distinctly and solidly American institution exhibited gracefully and with delicate Britishness.   British   Baseball . American Idealism. This is England.

The pitcher surveys his territory. Cap low, hand clasping the ball within the dark tricky confines of his sweat soaked leather glove. The man with the bat, hat turned backwards, stick of Wrigley’s taunting his opponent, relaxed stance, bat swinging nonchalantly, a crooked squint beneath the Sunday morning shine. Backstop, crouched and ready, eyes narrowed, focused, unmoving; one signal, no; second signal, no; third signal, a nod of approval from the pitcher. The fielders, shuffle, hands ready; no need to put the gloves up to shield the sun, it’s behind them. The last batsman on 2nd, cautiously side-steps, his focus on the pitcher, fingertips caressing the earth, as he eases to third. The warlike, poised curl, as the pitcher winds up, silences the stoical fans. A cry from a distant football game, joined suddenly by the plucky singing of a jolly sparrow, ignites the flurry of physical annihilation. A cataclysmic sequence of metamorphosis unfolds before the batsman’s impassive gaze. From within the coiled cloud of potential energy a kinetic force explodes – the ball hurtles unrelentingly forward, a vacuum enshrouds the ball and the batsman, as a grunt emits from the spent force of the pitcher. The queue at the diminutive tea hut, huddled over their steaming, polystyrene cups, appear entranced by the American spectacle. The batsman’s trunk rotates his powerful arms to meet the lethal projectile and with a bone splintering crack the ball tears a graceful arc through the bright, wintry air. The waiting batsman, nervously, but enigmatically reaches his left arm up and over his head, as he envisages his own triumphant act of supremacy.

The batsman regally inspects the flight of the ball as the fielders scramble to reach its destination. Two fielders, legs pumping, on a collision course doomed to failure. The hitter, his destination nearing, red faced, determined and fast. A blur of indomitable force. The fielders collide, the ball escapes, is finally gathered and in an explosive moment shot towards the final base.

In a race for the prize, ball and batsman compete for home and the ceremonious embrace of glove and teammate. A dive; a gasp; a moment. Americanisation encapsulated on a frosty Sunday morning. The enthusiasm, a distinctly and solidly American institution exhibited gracefully and with delicate Britishness.

British Baseball. American Idealism. This is England.

 The pitcher surveys his territory. Cap low, hand clasping the ball within the dark tricky confines of his sweat soaked leather glove. The man with the bat, hat turned backwards, stick of Wrigley’s taunting his opponent, relaxed stance, bat swinging nonchalantly, a crooked squint beneath the Sunday morning shine. Backstop, crouched and ready, eyes narrowed, focused, unmoving; one signal, no; second signal, no; third signal, a nod of approval from the pitcher. The fielders, shuffle, hands ready; no need to put the gloves up to shield the sun, it’s behind them. The last batsman on 2nd, cautiously side-steps, his focus on the pitcher, fingertips caressing the earth, as he eases to third. The warlike, poised curl, as the pitcher winds up, silences the stoical fans. A cry from a distant football game, joined suddenly by the plucky singing of a jolly sparrow, ignites the flurry of physical annihilation. A cataclysmic sequence of metamorphosis unfolds before the batsman’s impassive gaze. From within the coiled cloud of potential energy a kinetic force explodes – the ball hurtles unrelentingly forward, a vacuum enshrouds the ball and the batsman, as a grunt emits from the spent force of the pitcher. The queue at the diminutive tea hut, huddled over their steaming, polystyrene cups, appear entranced by the American spectacle. The batsman’s trunk rotates his powerful arms to meet the lethal projectile and with a bone splintering crack the ball tears a graceful arc through the bright, wintry air. The waiting batsman, nervously, but enigmatically reaches his left arm up and over his head, as he envisages his own triumphant act of supremacy.  The batsman regally inspects the flight of the ball as the fielders scramble to reach its destination. Two fielders, legs pumping, on a collision course doomed to failure. The hitter, his destination nearing, red faced, determined and fast. A blur of indomitable force. The fielders collide, the ball escapes, is finally gathered and in an explosive moment shot towards the final base.  In a race for the prize, ball and batsman compete for home and the ceremonious embrace of glove and teammate. A dive; a gasp; a moment. Americanisation encapsulated on a frosty Sunday morning. The enthusiasm, a distinctly and solidly American institution exhibited gracefully and with delicate Britishness.   British   Baseball . American Idealism. This is England.

The pitcher surveys his territory. Cap low, hand clasping the ball within the dark tricky confines of his sweat soaked leather glove. The man with the bat, hat turned backwards, stick of Wrigley’s taunting his opponent, relaxed stance, bat swinging nonchalantly, a crooked squint beneath the Sunday morning shine. Backstop, crouched and ready, eyes narrowed, focused, unmoving; one signal, no; second signal, no; third signal, a nod of approval from the pitcher. The fielders, shuffle, hands ready; no need to put the gloves up to shield the sun, it’s behind them. The last batsman on 2nd, cautiously side-steps, his focus on the pitcher, fingertips caressing the earth, as he eases to third. The warlike, poised curl, as the pitcher winds up, silences the stoical fans. A cry from a distant football game, joined suddenly by the plucky singing of a jolly sparrow, ignites the flurry of physical annihilation. A cataclysmic sequence of metamorphosis unfolds before the batsman’s impassive gaze. From within the coiled cloud of potential energy a kinetic force explodes – the ball hurtles unrelentingly forward, a vacuum enshrouds the ball and the batsman, as a grunt emits from the spent force of the pitcher. The queue at the diminutive tea hut, huddled over their steaming, polystyrene cups, appear entranced by the American spectacle. The batsman’s trunk rotates his powerful arms to meet the lethal projectile and with a bone splintering crack the ball tears a graceful arc through the bright, wintry air. The waiting batsman, nervously, but enigmatically reaches his left arm up and over his head, as he envisages his own triumphant act of supremacy.

The batsman regally inspects the flight of the ball as the fielders scramble to reach its destination. Two fielders, legs pumping, on a collision course doomed to failure. The hitter, his destination nearing, red faced, determined and fast. A blur of indomitable force. The fielders collide, the ball escapes, is finally gathered and in an explosive moment shot towards the final base.

In a race for the prize, ball and batsman compete for home and the ceremonious embrace of glove and teammate. A dive; a gasp; a moment. Americanisation encapsulated on a frosty Sunday morning. The enthusiasm, a distinctly and solidly American institution exhibited gracefully and with delicate Britishness.

British Baseball. American Idealism. This is England.

 The pitcher surveys his territory. Cap low, hand clasping the ball within the dark tricky confines of his sweat soaked leather glove. The man with the bat, hat turned backwards, stick of Wrigley’s taunting his opponent, relaxed stance, bat swinging nonchalantly, a crooked squint beneath the Sunday morning shine. Backstop, crouched and ready, eyes narrowed, focused, unmoving; one signal, no; second signal, no; third signal, a nod of approval from the pitcher. The fielders, shuffle, hands ready; no need to put the gloves up to shield the sun, it’s behind them. The last batsman on 2nd, cautiously side-steps, his focus on the pitcher, fingertips caressing the earth, as he eases to third. The warlike, poised curl, as the pitcher winds up, silences the stoical fans. A cry from a distant football game, joined suddenly by the plucky singing of a jolly sparrow, ignites the flurry of physical annihilation. A cataclysmic sequence of metamorphosis unfolds before the batsman’s impassive gaze. From within the coiled cloud of potential energy a kinetic force explodes – the ball hurtles unrelentingly forward, a vacuum enshrouds the ball and the batsman, as a grunt emits from the spent force of the pitcher. The queue at the diminutive tea hut, huddled over their steaming, polystyrene cups, appear entranced by the American spectacle. The batsman’s trunk rotates his powerful arms to meet the lethal projectile and with a bone splintering crack the ball tears a graceful arc through the bright, wintry air. The waiting batsman, nervously, but enigmatically reaches his left arm up and over his head, as he envisages his own triumphant act of supremacy.  The batsman regally inspects the flight of the ball as the fielders scramble to reach its destination. Two fielders, legs pumping, on a collision course doomed to failure. The hitter, his destination nearing, red faced, determined and fast. A blur of indomitable force. The fielders collide, the ball escapes, is finally gathered and in an explosive moment shot towards the final base.  In a race for the prize, ball and batsman compete for home and the ceremonious embrace of glove and teammate. A dive; a gasp; a moment. Americanisation encapsulated on a frosty Sunday morning. The enthusiasm, a distinctly and solidly American institution exhibited gracefully and with delicate Britishness.   British   Baseball . American Idealism. This is England.

The pitcher surveys his territory. Cap low, hand clasping the ball within the dark tricky confines of his sweat soaked leather glove. The man with the bat, hat turned backwards, stick of Wrigley’s taunting his opponent, relaxed stance, bat swinging nonchalantly, a crooked squint beneath the Sunday morning shine. Backstop, crouched and ready, eyes narrowed, focused, unmoving; one signal, no; second signal, no; third signal, a nod of approval from the pitcher. The fielders, shuffle, hands ready; no need to put the gloves up to shield the sun, it’s behind them. The last batsman on 2nd, cautiously side-steps, his focus on the pitcher, fingertips caressing the earth, as he eases to third. The warlike, poised curl, as the pitcher winds up, silences the stoical fans. A cry from a distant football game, joined suddenly by the plucky singing of a jolly sparrow, ignites the flurry of physical annihilation. A cataclysmic sequence of metamorphosis unfolds before the batsman’s impassive gaze. From within the coiled cloud of potential energy a kinetic force explodes – the ball hurtles unrelentingly forward, a vacuum enshrouds the ball and the batsman, as a grunt emits from the spent force of the pitcher. The queue at the diminutive tea hut, huddled over their steaming, polystyrene cups, appear entranced by the American spectacle. The batsman’s trunk rotates his powerful arms to meet the lethal projectile and with a bone splintering crack the ball tears a graceful arc through the bright, wintry air. The waiting batsman, nervously, but enigmatically reaches his left arm up and over his head, as he envisages his own triumphant act of supremacy.

The batsman regally inspects the flight of the ball as the fielders scramble to reach its destination. Two fielders, legs pumping, on a collision course doomed to failure. The hitter, his destination nearing, red faced, determined and fast. A blur of indomitable force. The fielders collide, the ball escapes, is finally gathered and in an explosive moment shot towards the final base.

In a race for the prize, ball and batsman compete for home and the ceremonious embrace of glove and teammate. A dive; a gasp; a moment. Americanisation encapsulated on a frosty Sunday morning. The enthusiasm, a distinctly and solidly American institution exhibited gracefully and with delicate Britishness.

British Baseball. American Idealism. This is England.

 The pitcher surveys his territory. Cap low, hand clasping the ball within the dark tricky confines of his sweat soaked leather glove. The man with the bat, hat turned backwards, stick of Wrigley’s taunting his opponent, relaxed stance, bat swinging nonchalantly, a crooked squint beneath the Sunday morning shine. Backstop, crouched and ready, eyes narrowed, focused, unmoving; one signal, no; second signal, no; third signal, a nod of approval from the pitcher. The fielders, shuffle, hands ready; no need to put the gloves up to shield the sun, it’s behind them. The last batsman on 2nd, cautiously side-steps, his focus on the pitcher, fingertips caressing the earth, as he eases to third. The warlike, poised curl, as the pitcher winds up, silences the stoical fans. A cry from a distant football game, joined suddenly by the plucky singing of a jolly sparrow, ignites the flurry of physical annihilation. A cataclysmic sequence of metamorphosis unfolds before the batsman’s impassive gaze. From within the coiled cloud of potential energy a kinetic force explodes – the ball hurtles unrelentingly forward, a vacuum enshrouds the ball and the batsman, as a grunt emits from the spent force of the pitcher. The queue at the diminutive tea hut, huddled over their steaming, polystyrene cups, appear entranced by the American spectacle. The batsman’s trunk rotates his powerful arms to meet the lethal projectile and with a bone splintering crack the ball tears a graceful arc through the bright, wintry air. The waiting batsman, nervously, but enigmatically reaches his left arm up and over his head, as he envisages his own triumphant act of supremacy.  The batsman regally inspects the flight of the ball as the fielders scramble to reach its destination. Two fielders, legs pumping, on a collision course doomed to failure. The hitter, his destination nearing, red faced, determined and fast. A blur of indomitable force. The fielders collide, the ball escapes, is finally gathered and in an explosive moment shot towards the final base.  In a race for the prize, ball and batsman compete for home and the ceremonious embrace of glove and teammate. A dive; a gasp; a moment. Americanisation encapsulated on a frosty Sunday morning. The enthusiasm, a distinctly and solidly American institution exhibited gracefully and with delicate Britishness.   British   Baseball . American Idealism. This is England.

The pitcher surveys his territory. Cap low, hand clasping the ball within the dark tricky confines of his sweat soaked leather glove. The man with the bat, hat turned backwards, stick of Wrigley’s taunting his opponent, relaxed stance, bat swinging nonchalantly, a crooked squint beneath the Sunday morning shine. Backstop, crouched and ready, eyes narrowed, focused, unmoving; one signal, no; second signal, no; third signal, a nod of approval from the pitcher. The fielders, shuffle, hands ready; no need to put the gloves up to shield the sun, it’s behind them. The last batsman on 2nd, cautiously side-steps, his focus on the pitcher, fingertips caressing the earth, as he eases to third. The warlike, poised curl, as the pitcher winds up, silences the stoical fans. A cry from a distant football game, joined suddenly by the plucky singing of a jolly sparrow, ignites the flurry of physical annihilation. A cataclysmic sequence of metamorphosis unfolds before the batsman’s impassive gaze. From within the coiled cloud of potential energy a kinetic force explodes – the ball hurtles unrelentingly forward, a vacuum enshrouds the ball and the batsman, as a grunt emits from the spent force of the pitcher. The queue at the diminutive tea hut, huddled over their steaming, polystyrene cups, appear entranced by the American spectacle. The batsman’s trunk rotates his powerful arms to meet the lethal projectile and with a bone splintering crack the ball tears a graceful arc through the bright, wintry air. The waiting batsman, nervously, but enigmatically reaches his left arm up and over his head, as he envisages his own triumphant act of supremacy.

The batsman regally inspects the flight of the ball as the fielders scramble to reach its destination. Two fielders, legs pumping, on a collision course doomed to failure. The hitter, his destination nearing, red faced, determined and fast. A blur of indomitable force. The fielders collide, the ball escapes, is finally gathered and in an explosive moment shot towards the final base.

In a race for the prize, ball and batsman compete for home and the ceremonious embrace of glove and teammate. A dive; a gasp; a moment. Americanisation encapsulated on a frosty Sunday morning. The enthusiasm, a distinctly and solidly American institution exhibited gracefully and with delicate Britishness.

British Baseball. American Idealism. This is England.

 The pitcher surveys his territory. Cap low, hand clasping the ball within the dark tricky confines of his sweat soaked leather glove. The man with the bat, hat turned backwards, stick of Wrigley’s taunting his opponent, relaxed stance, bat swinging nonchalantly, a crooked squint beneath the Sunday morning shine. Backstop, crouched and ready, eyes narrowed, focused, unmoving; one signal, no; second signal, no; third signal, a nod of approval from the pitcher. The fielders, shuffle, hands ready; no need to put the gloves up to shield the sun, it’s behind them. The last batsman on 2nd, cautiously side-steps, his focus on the pitcher, fingertips caressing the earth, as he eases to third. The warlike, poised curl, as the pitcher winds up, silences the stoical fans. A cry from a distant football game, joined suddenly by the plucky singing of a jolly sparrow, ignites the flurry of physical annihilation. A cataclysmic sequence of metamorphosis unfolds before the batsman’s impassive gaze. From within the coiled cloud of potential energy a kinetic force explodes – the ball hurtles unrelentingly forward, a vacuum enshrouds the ball and the batsman, as a grunt emits from the spent force of the pitcher. The queue at the diminutive tea hut, huddled over their steaming, polystyrene cups, appear entranced by the American spectacle. The batsman’s trunk rotates his powerful arms to meet the lethal projectile and with a bone splintering crack the ball tears a graceful arc through the bright, wintry air. The waiting batsman, nervously, but enigmatically reaches his left arm up and over his head, as he envisages his own triumphant act of supremacy.  The batsman regally inspects the flight of the ball as the fielders scramble to reach its destination. Two fielders, legs pumping, on a collision course doomed to failure. The hitter, his destination nearing, red faced, determined and fast. A blur of indomitable force. The fielders collide, the ball escapes, is finally gathered and in an explosive moment shot towards the final base.  In a race for the prize, ball and batsman compete for home and the ceremonious embrace of glove and teammate. A dive; a gasp; a moment. Americanisation encapsulated on a frosty Sunday morning. The enthusiasm, a distinctly and solidly American institution exhibited gracefully and with delicate Britishness.   British   Baseball . American Idealism. This is England.

The pitcher surveys his territory. Cap low, hand clasping the ball within the dark tricky confines of his sweat soaked leather glove. The man with the bat, hat turned backwards, stick of Wrigley’s taunting his opponent, relaxed stance, bat swinging nonchalantly, a crooked squint beneath the Sunday morning shine. Backstop, crouched and ready, eyes narrowed, focused, unmoving; one signal, no; second signal, no; third signal, a nod of approval from the pitcher. The fielders, shuffle, hands ready; no need to put the gloves up to shield the sun, it’s behind them. The last batsman on 2nd, cautiously side-steps, his focus on the pitcher, fingertips caressing the earth, as he eases to third. The warlike, poised curl, as the pitcher winds up, silences the stoical fans. A cry from a distant football game, joined suddenly by the plucky singing of a jolly sparrow, ignites the flurry of physical annihilation. A cataclysmic sequence of metamorphosis unfolds before the batsman’s impassive gaze. From within the coiled cloud of potential energy a kinetic force explodes – the ball hurtles unrelentingly forward, a vacuum enshrouds the ball and the batsman, as a grunt emits from the spent force of the pitcher. The queue at the diminutive tea hut, huddled over their steaming, polystyrene cups, appear entranced by the American spectacle. The batsman’s trunk rotates his powerful arms to meet the lethal projectile and with a bone splintering crack the ball tears a graceful arc through the bright, wintry air. The waiting batsman, nervously, but enigmatically reaches his left arm up and over his head, as he envisages his own triumphant act of supremacy.

The batsman regally inspects the flight of the ball as the fielders scramble to reach its destination. Two fielders, legs pumping, on a collision course doomed to failure. The hitter, his destination nearing, red faced, determined and fast. A blur of indomitable force. The fielders collide, the ball escapes, is finally gathered and in an explosive moment shot towards the final base.

In a race for the prize, ball and batsman compete for home and the ceremonious embrace of glove and teammate. A dive; a gasp; a moment. Americanisation encapsulated on a frosty Sunday morning. The enthusiasm, a distinctly and solidly American institution exhibited gracefully and with delicate Britishness.

British Baseball. American Idealism. This is England.

The pitcher surveys his territory. Cap low, hand clasping the ball within the dark tricky confines of his sweat soaked leather glove. The man with the bat, hat turned backwards, stick of Wrigley’s taunting his opponent, relaxed stance, bat swinging nonchalantly, a crooked squint beneath the Sunday morning shine. Backstop, crouched and ready, eyes narrowed, focused, unmoving; one signal, no; second signal, no; third signal, a nod of approval from the pitcher. The fielders, shuffle, hands ready; no need to put the gloves up to shield the sun, it’s behind them. The last batsman on 2nd, cautiously side-steps, his focus on the pitcher, fingertips caressing the earth, as he eases to third. The warlike, poised curl, as the pitcher winds up, silences the stoical fans. A cry from a distant football game, joined suddenly by the plucky singing of a jolly sparrow, ignites the flurry of physical annihilation. A cataclysmic sequence of metamorphosis unfolds before the batsman’s impassive gaze. From within the coiled cloud of potential energy a kinetic force explodes – the ball hurtles unrelentingly forward, a vacuum enshrouds the ball and the batsman, as a grunt emits from the spent force of the pitcher. The queue at the diminutive tea hut, huddled over their steaming, polystyrene cups, appear entranced by the American spectacle. The batsman’s trunk rotates his powerful arms to meet the lethal projectile and with a bone splintering crack the ball tears a graceful arc through the bright, wintry air. The waiting batsman, nervously, but enigmatically reaches his left arm up and over his head, as he envisages his own triumphant act of supremacy.

The batsman regally inspects the flight of the ball as the fielders scramble to reach its destination. Two fielders, legs pumping, on a collision course doomed to failure. The hitter, his destination nearing, red faced, determined and fast. A blur of indomitable force. The fielders collide, the ball escapes, is finally gathered and in an explosive moment shot towards the final base.

In a race for the prize, ball and batsman compete for home and the ceremonious embrace of glove and teammate. A dive; a gasp; a moment. Americanisation encapsulated on a frosty Sunday morning. The enthusiasm, a distinctly and solidly American institution exhibited gracefully and with delicate Britishness.

British Baseball. American Idealism. This is England.

The pitcher surveys his territory. Cap low, hand clasping the ball within the dark tricky confines of his sweat soaked leather glove. The man with the bat, hat turned backwards, stick of Wrigley’s taunting his opponent, relaxed stance, bat swinging nonchalantly, a crooked squint beneath the Sunday morning shine. Backstop, crouched and ready, eyes narrowed, focused, unmoving; one signal, no; second signal, no; third signal, a nod of approval from the pitcher. The fielders, shuffle, hands ready; no need to put the gloves up to shield the sun, it’s behind them. The last batsman on 2nd, cautiously side-steps, his focus on the pitcher, fingertips caressing the earth, as he eases to third. The warlike, poised curl, as the pitcher winds up, silences the stoical fans. A cry from a distant football game, joined suddenly by the plucky singing of a jolly sparrow, ignites the flurry of physical annihilation. A cataclysmic sequence of metamorphosis unfolds before the batsman’s impassive gaze. From within the coiled cloud of potential energy a kinetic force explodes – the ball hurtles unrelentingly forward, a vacuum enshrouds the ball and the batsman, as a grunt emits from the spent force of the pitcher. The queue at the diminutive tea hut, huddled over their steaming, polystyrene cups, appear entranced by the American spectacle. The batsman’s trunk rotates his powerful arms to meet the lethal projectile and with a bone splintering crack the ball tears a graceful arc through the bright, wintry air. The waiting batsman, nervously, but enigmatically reaches his left arm up and over his head, as he envisages his own triumphant act of supremacy.

The batsman regally inspects the flight of the ball as the fielders scramble to reach its destination. Two fielders, legs pumping, on a collision course doomed to failure. The hitter, his destination nearing, red faced, determined and fast. A blur of indomitable force. The fielders collide, the ball escapes, is finally gathered and in an explosive moment shot towards the final base.

In a race for the prize, ball and batsman compete for home and the ceremonious embrace of glove and teammate. A dive; a gasp; a moment. Americanisation encapsulated on a frosty Sunday morning. The enthusiasm, a distinctly and solidly American institution exhibited gracefully and with delicate Britishness.

British Baseball. American Idealism. This is England.

The pitcher surveys his territory. Cap low, hand clasping the ball within the dark tricky confines of his sweat soaked leather glove. The man with the bat, hat turned backwards, stick of Wrigley’s taunting his opponent, relaxed stance, bat swinging nonchalantly, a crooked squint beneath the Sunday morning shine. Backstop, crouched and ready, eyes narrowed, focused, unmoving; one signal, no; second signal, no; third signal, a nod of approval from the pitcher. The fielders, shuffle, hands ready; no need to put the gloves up to shield the sun, it’s behind them. The last batsman on 2nd, cautiously side-steps, his focus on the pitcher, fingertips caressing the earth, as he eases to third. The warlike, poised curl, as the pitcher winds up, silences the stoical fans. A cry from a distant football game, joined suddenly by the plucky singing of a jolly sparrow, ignites the flurry of physical annihilation. A cataclysmic sequence of metamorphosis unfolds before the batsman’s impassive gaze. From within the coiled cloud of potential energy a kinetic force explodes – the ball hurtles unrelentingly forward, a vacuum enshrouds the ball and the batsman, as a grunt emits from the spent force of the pitcher. The queue at the diminutive tea hut, huddled over their steaming, polystyrene cups, appear entranced by the American spectacle. The batsman’s trunk rotates his powerful arms to meet the lethal projectile and with a bone splintering crack the ball tears a graceful arc through the bright, wintry air. The waiting batsman, nervously, but enigmatically reaches his left arm up and over his head, as he envisages his own triumphant act of supremacy.

The batsman regally inspects the flight of the ball as the fielders scramble to reach its destination. Two fielders, legs pumping, on a collision course doomed to failure. The hitter, his destination nearing, red faced, determined and fast. A blur of indomitable force. The fielders collide, the ball escapes, is finally gathered and in an explosive moment shot towards the final base.

In a race for the prize, ball and batsman compete for home and the ceremonious embrace of glove and teammate. A dive; a gasp; a moment. Americanisation encapsulated on a frosty Sunday morning. The enthusiasm, a distinctly and solidly American institution exhibited gracefully and with delicate Britishness.

British Baseball. American Idealism. This is England.

The pitcher surveys his territory. Cap low, hand clasping the ball within the dark tricky confines of his sweat soaked leather glove. The man with the bat, hat turned backwards, stick of Wrigley’s taunting his opponent, relaxed stance, bat swinging nonchalantly, a crooked squint beneath the Sunday morning shine. Backstop, crouched and ready, eyes narrowed, focused, unmoving; one signal, no; second signal, no; third signal, a nod of approval from the pitcher. The fielders, shuffle, hands ready; no need to put the gloves up to shield the sun, it’s behind them. The last batsman on 2nd, cautiously side-steps, his focus on the pitcher, fingertips caressing the earth, as he eases to third. The warlike, poised curl, as the pitcher winds up, silences the stoical fans. A cry from a distant football game, joined suddenly by the plucky singing of a jolly sparrow, ignites the flurry of physical annihilation. A cataclysmic sequence of metamorphosis unfolds before the batsman’s impassive gaze. From within the coiled cloud of potential energy a kinetic force explodes – the ball hurtles unrelentingly forward, a vacuum enshrouds the ball and the batsman, as a grunt emits from the spent force of the pitcher. The queue at the diminutive tea hut, huddled over their steaming, polystyrene cups, appear entranced by the American spectacle. The batsman’s trunk rotates his powerful arms to meet the lethal projectile and with a bone splintering crack the ball tears a graceful arc through the bright, wintry air. The waiting batsman, nervously, but enigmatically reaches his left arm up and over his head, as he envisages his own triumphant act of supremacy.

The batsman regally inspects the flight of the ball as the fielders scramble to reach its destination. Two fielders, legs pumping, on a collision course doomed to failure. The hitter, his destination nearing, red faced, determined and fast. A blur of indomitable force. The fielders collide, the ball escapes, is finally gathered and in an explosive moment shot towards the final base.

In a race for the prize, ball and batsman compete for home and the ceremonious embrace of glove and teammate. A dive; a gasp; a moment. Americanisation encapsulated on a frosty Sunday morning. The enthusiasm, a distinctly and solidly American institution exhibited gracefully and with delicate Britishness.

British Baseball. American Idealism. This is England.

The pitcher surveys his territory. Cap low, hand clasping the ball within the dark tricky confines of his sweat soaked leather glove. The man with the bat, hat turned backwards, stick of Wrigley’s taunting his opponent, relaxed stance, bat swinging nonchalantly, a crooked squint beneath the Sunday morning shine. Backstop, crouched and ready, eyes narrowed, focused, unmoving; one signal, no; second signal, no; third signal, a nod of approval from the pitcher. The fielders, shuffle, hands ready; no need to put the gloves up to shield the sun, it’s behind them. The last batsman on 2nd, cautiously side-steps, his focus on the pitcher, fingertips caressing the earth, as he eases to third. The warlike, poised curl, as the pitcher winds up, silences the stoical fans. A cry from a distant football game, joined suddenly by the plucky singing of a jolly sparrow, ignites the flurry of physical annihilation. A cataclysmic sequence of metamorphosis unfolds before the batsman’s impassive gaze. From within the coiled cloud of potential energy a kinetic force explodes – the ball hurtles unrelentingly forward, a vacuum enshrouds the ball and the batsman, as a grunt emits from the spent force of the pitcher. The queue at the diminutive tea hut, huddled over their steaming, polystyrene cups, appear entranced by the American spectacle. The batsman’s trunk rotates his powerful arms to meet the lethal projectile and with a bone splintering crack the ball tears a graceful arc through the bright, wintry air. The waiting batsman, nervously, but enigmatically reaches his left arm up and over his head, as he envisages his own triumphant act of supremacy.

The batsman regally inspects the flight of the ball as the fielders scramble to reach its destination. Two fielders, legs pumping, on a collision course doomed to failure. The hitter, his destination nearing, red faced, determined and fast. A blur of indomitable force. The fielders collide, the ball escapes, is finally gathered and in an explosive moment shot towards the final base.

In a race for the prize, ball and batsman compete for home and the ceremonious embrace of glove and teammate. A dive; a gasp; a moment. Americanisation encapsulated on a frosty Sunday morning. The enthusiasm, a distinctly and solidly American institution exhibited gracefully and with delicate Britishness.

British Baseball. American Idealism. This is England.

The pitcher surveys his territory. Cap low, hand clasping the ball within the dark tricky confines of his sweat soaked leather glove. The man with the bat, hat turned backwards, stick of Wrigley’s taunting his opponent, relaxed stance, bat swinging nonchalantly, a crooked squint beneath the Sunday morning shine. Backstop, crouched and ready, eyes narrowed, focused, unmoving; one signal, no; second signal, no; third signal, a nod of approval from the pitcher. The fielders, shuffle, hands ready; no need to put the gloves up to shield the sun, it’s behind them. The last batsman on 2nd, cautiously side-steps, his focus on the pitcher, fingertips caressing the earth, as he eases to third. The warlike, poised curl, as the pitcher winds up, silences the stoical fans. A cry from a distant football game, joined suddenly by the plucky singing of a jolly sparrow, ignites the flurry of physical annihilation. A cataclysmic sequence of metamorphosis unfolds before the batsman’s impassive gaze. From within the coiled cloud of potential energy a kinetic force explodes – the ball hurtles unrelentingly forward, a vacuum enshrouds the ball and the batsman, as a grunt emits from the spent force of the pitcher. The queue at the diminutive tea hut, huddled over their steaming, polystyrene cups, appear entranced by the American spectacle. The batsman’s trunk rotates his powerful arms to meet the lethal projectile and with a bone splintering crack the ball tears a graceful arc through the bright, wintry air. The waiting batsman, nervously, but enigmatically reaches his left arm up and over his head, as he envisages his own triumphant act of supremacy.

The batsman regally inspects the flight of the ball as the fielders scramble to reach its destination. Two fielders, legs pumping, on a collision course doomed to failure. The hitter, his destination nearing, red faced, determined and fast. A blur of indomitable force. The fielders collide, the ball escapes, is finally gathered and in an explosive moment shot towards the final base.

In a race for the prize, ball and batsman compete for home and the ceremonious embrace of glove and teammate. A dive; a gasp; a moment. Americanisation encapsulated on a frosty Sunday morning. The enthusiasm, a distinctly and solidly American institution exhibited gracefully and with delicate Britishness.

British Baseball. American Idealism. This is England.

The pitcher surveys his territory. Cap low, hand clasping the ball within the dark tricky confines of his sweat soaked leather glove. The man with the bat, hat turned backwards, stick of Wrigley’s taunting his opponent, relaxed stance, bat swinging nonchalantly, a crooked squint beneath the Sunday morning shine. Backstop, crouched and ready, eyes narrowed, focused, unmoving; one signal, no; second signal, no; third signal, a nod of approval from the pitcher. The fielders, shuffle, hands ready; no need to put the gloves up to shield the sun, it’s behind them. The last batsman on 2nd, cautiously side-steps, his focus on the pitcher, fingertips caressing the earth, as he eases to third. The warlike, poised curl, as the pitcher winds up, silences the stoical fans. A cry from a distant football game, joined suddenly by the plucky singing of a jolly sparrow, ignites the flurry of physical annihilation. A cataclysmic sequence of metamorphosis unfolds before the batsman’s impassive gaze. From within the coiled cloud of potential energy a kinetic force explodes – the ball hurtles unrelentingly forward, a vacuum enshrouds the ball and the batsman, as a grunt emits from the spent force of the pitcher. The queue at the diminutive tea hut, huddled over their steaming, polystyrene cups, appear entranced by the American spectacle. The batsman’s trunk rotates his powerful arms to meet the lethal projectile and with a bone splintering crack the ball tears a graceful arc through the bright, wintry air. The waiting batsman, nervously, but enigmatically reaches his left arm up and over his head, as he envisages his own triumphant act of supremacy.

The batsman regally inspects the flight of the ball as the fielders scramble to reach its destination. Two fielders, legs pumping, on a collision course doomed to failure. The hitter, his destination nearing, red faced, determined and fast. A blur of indomitable force. The fielders collide, the ball escapes, is finally gathered and in an explosive moment shot towards the final base.

In a race for the prize, ball and batsman compete for home and the ceremonious embrace of glove and teammate. A dive; a gasp; a moment. Americanisation encapsulated on a frosty Sunday morning. The enthusiasm, a distinctly and solidly American institution exhibited gracefully and with delicate Britishness.

British Baseball. American Idealism. This is England.

The pitcher surveys his territory. Cap low, hand clasping the ball within the dark tricky confines of his sweat soaked leather glove. The man with the bat, hat turned backwards, stick of Wrigley’s taunting his opponent, relaxed stance, bat swinging nonchalantly, a crooked squint beneath the Sunday morning shine. Backstop, crouched and ready, eyes narrowed, focused, unmoving; one signal, no; second signal, no; third signal, a nod of approval from the pitcher. The fielders, shuffle, hands ready; no need to put the gloves up to shield the sun, it’s behind them. The last batsman on 2nd, cautiously side-steps, his focus on the pitcher, fingertips caressing the earth, as he eases to third. The warlike, poised curl, as the pitcher winds up, silences the stoical fans. A cry from a distant football game, joined suddenly by the plucky singing of a jolly sparrow, ignites the flurry of physical annihilation. A cataclysmic sequence of metamorphosis unfolds before the batsman’s impassive gaze. From within the coiled cloud of potential energy a kinetic force explodes – the ball hurtles unrelentingly forward, a vacuum enshrouds the ball and the batsman, as a grunt emits from the spent force of the pitcher. The queue at the diminutive tea hut, huddled over their steaming, polystyrene cups, appear entranced by the American spectacle. The batsman’s trunk rotates his powerful arms to meet the lethal projectile and with a bone splintering crack the ball tears a graceful arc through the bright, wintry air. The waiting batsman, nervously, but enigmatically reaches his left arm up and over his head, as he envisages his own triumphant act of supremacy.

The batsman regally inspects the flight of the ball as the fielders scramble to reach its destination. Two fielders, legs pumping, on a collision course doomed to failure. The hitter, his destination nearing, red faced, determined and fast. A blur of indomitable force. The fielders collide, the ball escapes, is finally gathered and in an explosive moment shot towards the final base.

In a race for the prize, ball and batsman compete for home and the ceremonious embrace of glove and teammate. A dive; a gasp; a moment. Americanisation encapsulated on a frosty Sunday morning. The enthusiasm, a distinctly and solidly American institution exhibited gracefully and with delicate Britishness.

British Baseball. American Idealism. This is England.

The pitcher surveys his territory. Cap low, hand clasping the ball within the dark tricky confines of his sweat soaked leather glove. The man with the bat, hat turned backwards, stick of Wrigley’s taunting his opponent, relaxed stance, bat swinging nonchalantly, a crooked squint beneath the Sunday morning shine. Backstop, crouched and ready, eyes narrowed, focused, unmoving; one signal, no; second signal, no; third signal, a nod of approval from the pitcher. The fielders, shuffle, hands ready; no need to put the gloves up to shield the sun, it’s behind them. The last batsman on 2nd, cautiously side-steps, his focus on the pitcher, fingertips caressing the earth, as he eases to third. The warlike, poised curl, as the pitcher winds up, silences the stoical fans. A cry from a distant football game, joined suddenly by the plucky singing of a jolly sparrow, ignites the flurry of physical annihilation. A cataclysmic sequence of metamorphosis unfolds before the batsman’s impassive gaze. From within the coiled cloud of potential energy a kinetic force explodes – the ball hurtles unrelentingly forward, a vacuum enshrouds the ball and the batsman, as a grunt emits from the spent force of the pitcher. The queue at the diminutive tea hut, huddled over their steaming, polystyrene cups, appear entranced by the American spectacle. The batsman’s trunk rotates his powerful arms to meet the lethal projectile and with a bone splintering crack the ball tears a graceful arc through the bright, wintry air. The waiting batsman, nervously, but enigmatically reaches his left arm up and over his head, as he envisages his own triumphant act of supremacy.

The batsman regally inspects the flight of the ball as the fielders scramble to reach its destination. Two fielders, legs pumping, on a collision course doomed to failure. The hitter, his destination nearing, red faced, determined and fast. A blur of indomitable force. The fielders collide, the ball escapes, is finally gathered and in an explosive moment shot towards the final base.

In a race for the prize, ball and batsman compete for home and the ceremonious embrace of glove and teammate. A dive; a gasp; a moment. Americanisation encapsulated on a frosty Sunday morning. The enthusiasm, a distinctly and solidly American institution exhibited gracefully and with delicate Britishness.

British Baseball. American Idealism. This is England.

The pitcher surveys his territory. Cap low, hand clasping the ball within the dark tricky confines of his sweat soaked leather glove. The man with the bat, hat turned backwards, stick of Wrigley’s taunting his opponent, relaxed stance, bat swinging nonchalantly, a crooked squint beneath the Sunday morning shine. Backstop, crouched and ready, eyes narrowed, focused, unmoving; one signal, no; second signal, no; third signal, a nod of approval from the pitcher. The fielders, shuffle, hands ready; no need to put the gloves up to shield the sun, it’s behind them. The last batsman on 2nd, cautiously side-steps, his focus on the pitcher, fingertips caressing the earth, as he eases to third. The warlike, poised curl, as the pitcher winds up, silences the stoical fans. A cry from a distant football game, joined suddenly by the plucky singing of a jolly sparrow, ignites the flurry of physical annihilation. A cataclysmic sequence of metamorphosis unfolds before the batsman’s impassive gaze. From within the coiled cloud of potential energy a kinetic force explodes – the ball hurtles unrelentingly forward, a vacuum enshrouds the ball and the batsman, as a grunt emits from the spent force of the pitcher. The queue at the diminutive tea hut, huddled over their steaming, polystyrene cups, appear entranced by the American spectacle. The batsman’s trunk rotates his powerful arms to meet the lethal projectile and with a bone splintering crack the ball tears a graceful arc through the bright, wintry air. The waiting batsman, nervously, but enigmatically reaches his left arm up and over his head, as he envisages his own triumphant act of supremacy.

The batsman regally inspects the flight of the ball as the fielders scramble to reach its destination. Two fielders, legs pumping, on a collision course doomed to failure. The hitter, his destination nearing, red faced, determined and fast. A blur of indomitable force. The fielders collide, the ball escapes, is finally gathered and in an explosive moment shot towards the final base.

In a race for the prize, ball and batsman compete for home and the ceremonious embrace of glove and teammate. A dive; a gasp; a moment. Americanisation encapsulated on a frosty Sunday morning. The enthusiasm, a distinctly and solidly American institution exhibited gracefully and with delicate Britishness.

British Baseball. American Idealism. This is England.

The pitcher surveys his territory. Cap low, hand clasping the ball within the dark tricky confines of his sweat soaked leather glove. The man with the bat, hat turned backwards, stick of Wrigley’s taunting his opponent, relaxed stance, bat swinging nonchalantly, a crooked squint beneath the Sunday morning shine. Backstop, crouched and ready, eyes narrowed, focused, unmoving; one signal, no; second signal, no; third signal, a nod of approval from the pitcher. The fielders, shuffle, hands ready; no need to put the gloves up to shield the sun, it’s behind them. The last batsman on 2nd, cautiously side-steps, his focus on the pitcher, fingertips caressing the earth, as he eases to third. The warlike, poised curl, as the pitcher winds up, silences the stoical fans. A cry from a distant football game, joined suddenly by the plucky singing of a jolly sparrow, ignites the flurry of physical annihilation. A cataclysmic sequence of metamorphosis unfolds before the batsman’s impassive gaze. From within the coiled cloud of potential energy a kinetic force explodes – the ball hurtles unrelentingly forward, a vacuum enshrouds the ball and the batsman, as a grunt emits from the spent force of the pitcher. The queue at the diminutive tea hut, huddled over their steaming, polystyrene cups, appear entranced by the American spectacle. The batsman’s trunk rotates his powerful arms to meet the lethal projectile and with a bone splintering crack the ball tears a graceful arc through the bright, wintry air. The waiting batsman, nervously, but enigmatically reaches his left arm up and over his head, as he envisages his own triumphant act of supremacy.

The batsman regally inspects the flight of the ball as the fielders scramble to reach its destination. Two fielders, legs pumping, on a collision course doomed to failure. The hitter, his destination nearing, red faced, determined and fast. A blur of indomitable force. The fielders collide, the ball escapes, is finally gathered and in an explosive moment shot towards the final base.

In a race for the prize, ball and batsman compete for home and the ceremonious embrace of glove and teammate. A dive; a gasp; a moment. Americanisation encapsulated on a frosty Sunday morning. The enthusiasm, a distinctly and solidly American institution exhibited gracefully and with delicate Britishness.

British Baseball. American Idealism. This is England.

The pitcher surveys his territory. Cap low, hand clasping the ball within the dark tricky confines of his sweat soaked leather glove. The man with the bat, hat turned backwards, stick of Wrigley’s taunting his opponent, relaxed stance, bat swinging nonchalantly, a crooked squint beneath the Sunday morning shine. Backstop, crouched and ready, eyes narrowed, focused, unmoving; one signal, no; second signal, no; third signal, a nod of approval from the pitcher. The fielders, shuffle, hands ready; no need to put the gloves up to shield the sun, it’s behind them. The last batsman on 2nd, cautiously side-steps, his focus on the pitcher, fingertips caressing the earth, as he eases to third. The warlike, poised curl, as the pitcher winds up, silences the stoical fans. A cry from a distant football game, joined suddenly by the plucky singing of a jolly sparrow, ignites the flurry of physical annihilation. A cataclysmic sequence of metamorphosis unfolds before the batsman’s impassive gaze. From within the coiled cloud of potential energy a kinetic force explodes – the ball hurtles unrelentingly forward, a vacuum enshrouds the ball and the batsman, as a grunt emits from the spent force of the pitcher. The queue at the diminutive tea hut, huddled over their steaming, polystyrene cups, appear entranced by the American spectacle. The batsman’s trunk rotates his powerful arms to meet the lethal projectile and with a bone splintering crack the ball tears a graceful arc through the bright, wintry air. The waiting batsman, nervously, but enigmatically reaches his left arm up and over his head, as he envisages his own triumphant act of supremacy.

The batsman regally inspects the flight of the ball as the fielders scramble to reach its destination. Two fielders, legs pumping, on a collision course doomed to failure. The hitter, his destination nearing, red faced, determined and fast. A blur of indomitable force. The fielders collide, the ball escapes, is finally gathered and in an explosive moment shot towards the final base.

In a race for the prize, ball and batsman compete for home and the ceremonious embrace of glove and teammate. A dive; a gasp; a moment. Americanisation encapsulated on a frosty Sunday morning. The enthusiasm, a distinctly and solidly American institution exhibited gracefully and with delicate Britishness.

British Baseball. American Idealism. This is England.

The pitcher surveys his territory. Cap low, hand clasping the ball within the dark tricky confines of his sweat soaked leather glove. The man with the bat, hat turned backwards, stick of Wrigley’s taunting his opponent, relaxed stance, bat swinging nonchalantly, a crooked squint beneath the Sunday morning shine. Backstop, crouched and ready, eyes narrowed, focused, unmoving; one signal, no; second signal, no; third signal, a nod of approval from the pitcher. The fielders, shuffle, hands ready; no need to put the gloves up to shield the sun, it’s behind them. The last batsman on 2nd, cautiously side-steps, his focus on the pitcher, fingertips caressing the earth, as he eases to third. The warlike, poised curl, as the pitcher winds up, silences the stoical fans. A cry from a distant football game, joined suddenly by the plucky singing of a jolly sparrow, ignites the flurry of physical annihilation. A cataclysmic sequence of metamorphosis unfolds before the batsman’s impassive gaze. From within the coiled cloud of potential energy a kinetic force explodes – the ball hurtles unrelentingly forward, a vacuum enshrouds the ball and the batsman, as a grunt emits from the spent force of the pitcher. The queue at the diminutive tea hut, huddled over their steaming, polystyrene cups, appear entranced by the American spectacle. The batsman’s trunk rotates his powerful arms to meet the lethal projectile and with a bone splintering crack the ball tears a graceful arc through the bright, wintry air. The waiting batsman, nervously, but enigmatically reaches his left arm up and over his head, as he envisages his own triumphant act of supremacy.

The batsman regally inspects the flight of the ball as the fielders scramble to reach its destination. Two fielders, legs pumping, on a collision course doomed to failure. The hitter, his destination nearing, red faced, determined and fast. A blur of indomitable force. The fielders collide, the ball escapes, is finally gathered and in an explosive moment shot towards the final base.

In a race for the prize, ball and batsman compete for home and the ceremonious embrace of glove and teammate. A dive; a gasp; a moment. Americanisation encapsulated on a frosty Sunday morning. The enthusiasm, a distinctly and solidly American institution exhibited gracefully and with delicate Britishness.

British Baseball. American Idealism. This is England.

The pitcher surveys his territory. Cap low, hand clasping the ball within the dark tricky confines of his sweat soaked leather glove. The man with the bat, hat turned backwards, stick of Wrigley’s taunting his opponent, relaxed stance, bat swinging nonchalantly, a crooked squint beneath the Sunday morning shine. Backstop, crouched and ready, eyes narrowed, focused, unmoving; one signal, no; second signal, no; third signal, a nod of approval from the pitcher. The fielders, shuffle, hands ready; no need to put the gloves up to shield the sun, it’s behind them. The last batsman on 2nd, cautiously side-steps, his focus on the pitcher, fingertips caressing the earth, as he eases to third. The warlike, poised curl, as the pitcher winds up, silences the stoical fans. A cry from a distant football game, joined suddenly by the plucky singing of a jolly sparrow, ignites the flurry of physical annihilation. A cataclysmic sequence of metamorphosis unfolds before the batsman’s impassive gaze. From within the coiled cloud of potential energy a kinetic force explodes – the ball hurtles unrelentingly forward, a vacuum enshrouds the ball and the batsman, as a grunt emits from the spent force of the pitcher. The queue at the diminutive tea hut, huddled over their steaming, polystyrene cups, appear entranced by the American spectacle. The batsman’s trunk rotates his powerful arms to meet the lethal projectile and with a bone splintering crack the ball tears a graceful arc through the bright, wintry air. The waiting batsman, nervously, but enigmatically reaches his left arm up and over his head, as he envisages his own triumphant act of supremacy.

The batsman regally inspects the flight of the ball as the fielders scramble to reach its destination. Two fielders, legs pumping, on a collision course doomed to failure. The hitter, his destination nearing, red faced, determined and fast. A blur of indomitable force. The fielders collide, the ball escapes, is finally gathered and in an explosive moment shot towards the final base.

In a race for the prize, ball and batsman compete for home and the ceremonious embrace of glove and teammate. A dive; a gasp; a moment. Americanisation encapsulated on a frosty Sunday morning. The enthusiasm, a distinctly and solidly American institution exhibited gracefully and with delicate Britishness.

British Baseball. American Idealism. This is England.

 The pitcher surveys his territory. Cap low, hand clasping the ball within the dark tricky confines of his sweat soaked leather glove. The man with the bat, hat turned backwards, stick of Wrigley’s taunting his opponent, relaxed stance, bat swinging nonchalantly, a crooked squint beneath the Sunday morning shine. Backstop, crouched and ready, eyes narrowed, focused, unmoving; one signal, no; second signal, no; third signal, a nod of approval from the pitcher. The fielders, shuffle, hands ready; no need to put the gloves up to shield the sun, it’s behind them. The last batsman on 2nd, cautiously side-steps, his focus on the pitcher, fingertips caressing the earth, as he eases to third. The warlike, poised curl, as the pitcher winds up, silences the stoical fans. A cry from a distant football game, joined suddenly by the plucky singing of a jolly sparrow, ignites the flurry of physical annihilation. A cataclysmic sequence of metamorphosis unfolds before the batsman’s impassive gaze. From within the coiled cloud of potential energy a kinetic force explodes – the ball hurtles unrelentingly forward, a vacuum enshrouds the ball and the batsman, as a grunt emits from the spent force of the pitcher. The queue at the diminutive tea hut, huddled over their steaming, polystyrene cups, appear entranced by the American spectacle. The batsman’s trunk rotates his powerful arms to meet the lethal projectile and with a bone splintering crack the ball tears a graceful arc through the bright, wintry air. The waiting batsman, nervously, but enigmatically reaches his left arm up and over his head, as he envisages his own triumphant act of supremacy.  The batsman regally inspects the flight of the ball as the fielders scramble to reach its destination. Two fielders, legs pumping, on a collision course doomed to failure. The hitter, his destination nearing, red faced, determined and fast. A blur of indomitable force. The fielders collide, the ball escapes, is finally gathered and in an explosive moment shot towards the final base.  In a race for the prize, ball and batsman compete for home and the ceremonious embrace of glove and teammate. A dive; a gasp; a moment. Americanisation encapsulated on a frosty Sunday morning. The enthusiasm, a distinctly and solidly American institution exhibited gracefully and with delicate Britishness.   British   Baseball . American Idealism. This is England.
 The pitcher surveys his territory. Cap low, hand clasping the ball within the dark tricky confines of his sweat soaked leather glove. The man with the bat, hat turned backwards, stick of Wrigley’s taunting his opponent, relaxed stance, bat swinging nonchalantly, a crooked squint beneath the Sunday morning shine. Backstop, crouched and ready, eyes narrowed, focused, unmoving; one signal, no; second signal, no; third signal, a nod of approval from the pitcher. The fielders, shuffle, hands ready; no need to put the gloves up to shield the sun, it’s behind them. The last batsman on 2nd, cautiously side-steps, his focus on the pitcher, fingertips caressing the earth, as he eases to third. The warlike, poised curl, as the pitcher winds up, silences the stoical fans. A cry from a distant football game, joined suddenly by the plucky singing of a jolly sparrow, ignites the flurry of physical annihilation. A cataclysmic sequence of metamorphosis unfolds before the batsman’s impassive gaze. From within the coiled cloud of potential energy a kinetic force explodes – the ball hurtles unrelentingly forward, a vacuum enshrouds the ball and the batsman, as a grunt emits from the spent force of the pitcher. The queue at the diminutive tea hut, huddled over their steaming, polystyrene cups, appear entranced by the American spectacle. The batsman’s trunk rotates his powerful arms to meet the lethal projectile and with a bone splintering crack the ball tears a graceful arc through the bright, wintry air. The waiting batsman, nervously, but enigmatically reaches his left arm up and over his head, as he envisages his own triumphant act of supremacy.  The batsman regally inspects the flight of the ball as the fielders scramble to reach its destination. Two fielders, legs pumping, on a collision course doomed to failure. The hitter, his destination nearing, red faced, determined and fast. A blur of indomitable force. The fielders collide, the ball escapes, is finally gathered and in an explosive moment shot towards the final base.  In a race for the prize, ball and batsman compete for home and the ceremonious embrace of glove and teammate. A dive; a gasp; a moment. Americanisation encapsulated on a frosty Sunday morning. The enthusiasm, a distinctly and solidly American institution exhibited gracefully and with delicate Britishness.   British   Baseball . American Idealism. This is England.
 The pitcher surveys his territory. Cap low, hand clasping the ball within the dark tricky confines of his sweat soaked leather glove. The man with the bat, hat turned backwards, stick of Wrigley’s taunting his opponent, relaxed stance, bat swinging nonchalantly, a crooked squint beneath the Sunday morning shine. Backstop, crouched and ready, eyes narrowed, focused, unmoving; one signal, no; second signal, no; third signal, a nod of approval from the pitcher. The fielders, shuffle, hands ready; no need to put the gloves up to shield the sun, it’s behind them. The last batsman on 2nd, cautiously side-steps, his focus on the pitcher, fingertips caressing the earth, as he eases to third. The warlike, poised curl, as the pitcher winds up, silences the stoical fans. A cry from a distant football game, joined suddenly by the plucky singing of a jolly sparrow, ignites the flurry of physical annihilation. A cataclysmic sequence of metamorphosis unfolds before the batsman’s impassive gaze. From within the coiled cloud of potential energy a kinetic force explodes – the ball hurtles unrelentingly forward, a vacuum enshrouds the ball and the batsman, as a grunt emits from the spent force of the pitcher. The queue at the diminutive tea hut, huddled over their steaming, polystyrene cups, appear entranced by the American spectacle. The batsman’s trunk rotates his powerful arms to meet the lethal projectile and with a bone splintering crack the ball tears a graceful arc through the bright, wintry air. The waiting batsman, nervously, but enigmatically reaches his left arm up and over his head, as he envisages his own triumphant act of supremacy.  The batsman regally inspects the flight of the ball as the fielders scramble to reach its destination. Two fielders, legs pumping, on a collision course doomed to failure. The hitter, his destination nearing, red faced, determined and fast. A blur of indomitable force. The fielders collide, the ball escapes, is finally gathered and in an explosive moment shot towards the final base.  In a race for the prize, ball and batsman compete for home and the ceremonious embrace of glove and teammate. A dive; a gasp; a moment. Americanisation encapsulated on a frosty Sunday morning. The enthusiasm, a distinctly and solidly American institution exhibited gracefully and with delicate Britishness.   British   Baseball . American Idealism. This is England.
 The pitcher surveys his territory. Cap low, hand clasping the ball within the dark tricky confines of his sweat soaked leather glove. The man with the bat, hat turned backwards, stick of Wrigley’s taunting his opponent, relaxed stance, bat swinging nonchalantly, a crooked squint beneath the Sunday morning shine. Backstop, crouched and ready, eyes narrowed, focused, unmoving; one signal, no; second signal, no; third signal, a nod of approval from the pitcher. The fielders, shuffle, hands ready; no need to put the gloves up to shield the sun, it’s behind them. The last batsman on 2nd, cautiously side-steps, his focus on the pitcher, fingertips caressing the earth, as he eases to third. The warlike, poised curl, as the pitcher winds up, silences the stoical fans. A cry from a distant football game, joined suddenly by the plucky singing of a jolly sparrow, ignites the flurry of physical annihilation. A cataclysmic sequence of metamorphosis unfolds before the batsman’s impassive gaze. From within the coiled cloud of potential energy a kinetic force explodes – the ball hurtles unrelentingly forward, a vacuum enshrouds the ball and the batsman, as a grunt emits from the spent force of the pitcher. The queue at the diminutive tea hut, huddled over their steaming, polystyrene cups, appear entranced by the American spectacle. The batsman’s trunk rotates his powerful arms to meet the lethal projectile and with a bone splintering crack the ball tears a graceful arc through the bright, wintry air. The waiting batsman, nervously, but enigmatically reaches his left arm up and over his head, as he envisages his own triumphant act of supremacy.  The batsman regally inspects the flight of the ball as the fielders scramble to reach its destination. Two fielders, legs pumping, on a collision course doomed to failure. The hitter, his destination nearing, red faced, determined and fast. A blur of indomitable force. The fielders collide, the ball escapes, is finally gathered and in an explosive moment shot towards the final base.  In a race for the prize, ball and batsman compete for home and the ceremonious embrace of glove and teammate. A dive; a gasp; a moment. Americanisation encapsulated on a frosty Sunday morning. The enthusiasm, a distinctly and solidly American institution exhibited gracefully and with delicate Britishness.   British   Baseball . American Idealism. This is England.
 The pitcher surveys his territory. Cap low, hand clasping the ball within the dark tricky confines of his sweat soaked leather glove. The man with the bat, hat turned backwards, stick of Wrigley’s taunting his opponent, relaxed stance, bat swinging nonchalantly, a crooked squint beneath the Sunday morning shine. Backstop, crouched and ready, eyes narrowed, focused, unmoving; one signal, no; second signal, no; third signal, a nod of approval from the pitcher. The fielders, shuffle, hands ready; no need to put the gloves up to shield the sun, it’s behind them. The last batsman on 2nd, cautiously side-steps, his focus on the pitcher, fingertips caressing the earth, as he eases to third. The warlike, poised curl, as the pitcher winds up, silences the stoical fans. A cry from a distant football game, joined suddenly by the plucky singing of a jolly sparrow, ignites the flurry of physical annihilation. A cataclysmic sequence of metamorphosis unfolds before the batsman’s impassive gaze. From within the coiled cloud of potential energy a kinetic force explodes – the ball hurtles unrelentingly forward, a vacuum enshrouds the ball and the batsman, as a grunt emits from the spent force of the pitcher. The queue at the diminutive tea hut, huddled over their steaming, polystyrene cups, appear entranced by the American spectacle. The batsman’s trunk rotates his powerful arms to meet the lethal projectile and with a bone splintering crack the ball tears a graceful arc through the bright, wintry air. The waiting batsman, nervously, but enigmatically reaches his left arm up and over his head, as he envisages his own triumphant act of supremacy.  The batsman regally inspects the flight of the ball as the fielders scramble to reach its destination. Two fielders, legs pumping, on a collision course doomed to failure. The hitter, his destination nearing, red faced, determined and fast. A blur of indomitable force. The fielders collide, the ball escapes, is finally gathered and in an explosive moment shot towards the final base.  In a race for the prize, ball and batsman compete for home and the ceremonious embrace of glove and teammate. A dive; a gasp; a moment. Americanisation encapsulated on a frosty Sunday morning. The enthusiasm, a distinctly and solidly American institution exhibited gracefully and with delicate Britishness.   British   Baseball . American Idealism. This is England.
 The pitcher surveys his territory. Cap low, hand clasping the ball within the dark tricky confines of his sweat soaked leather glove. The man with the bat, hat turned backwards, stick of Wrigley’s taunting his opponent, relaxed stance, bat swinging nonchalantly, a crooked squint beneath the Sunday morning shine. Backstop, crouched and ready, eyes narrowed, focused, unmoving; one signal, no; second signal, no; third signal, a nod of approval from the pitcher. The fielders, shuffle, hands ready; no need to put the gloves up to shield the sun, it’s behind them. The last batsman on 2nd, cautiously side-steps, his focus on the pitcher, fingertips caressing the earth, as he eases to third. The warlike, poised curl, as the pitcher winds up, silences the stoical fans. A cry from a distant football game, joined suddenly by the plucky singing of a jolly sparrow, ignites the flurry of physical annihilation. A cataclysmic sequence of metamorphosis unfolds before the batsman’s impassive gaze. From within the coiled cloud of potential energy a kinetic force explodes – the ball hurtles unrelentingly forward, a vacuum enshrouds the ball and the batsman, as a grunt emits from the spent force of the pitcher. The queue at the diminutive tea hut, huddled over their steaming, polystyrene cups, appear entranced by the American spectacle. The batsman’s trunk rotates his powerful arms to meet the lethal projectile and with a bone splintering crack the ball tears a graceful arc through the bright, wintry air. The waiting batsman, nervously, but enigmatically reaches his left arm up and over his head, as he envisages his own triumphant act of supremacy.  The batsman regally inspects the flight of the ball as the fielders scramble to reach its destination. Two fielders, legs pumping, on a collision course doomed to failure. The hitter, his destination nearing, red faced, determined and fast. A blur of indomitable force. The fielders collide, the ball escapes, is finally gathered and in an explosive moment shot towards the final base.  In a race for the prize, ball and batsman compete for home and the ceremonious embrace of glove and teammate. A dive; a gasp; a moment. Americanisation encapsulated on a frosty Sunday morning. The enthusiasm, a distinctly and solidly American institution exhibited gracefully and with delicate Britishness.   British   Baseball . American Idealism. This is England.
 The pitcher surveys his territory. Cap low, hand clasping the ball within the dark tricky confines of his sweat soaked leather glove. The man with the bat, hat turned backwards, stick of Wrigley’s taunting his opponent, relaxed stance, bat swinging nonchalantly, a crooked squint beneath the Sunday morning shine. Backstop, crouched and ready, eyes narrowed, focused, unmoving; one signal, no; second signal, no; third signal, a nod of approval from the pitcher. The fielders, shuffle, hands ready; no need to put the gloves up to shield the sun, it’s behind them. The last batsman on 2nd, cautiously side-steps, his focus on the pitcher, fingertips caressing the earth, as he eases to third. The warlike, poised curl, as the pitcher winds up, silences the stoical fans. A cry from a distant football game, joined suddenly by the plucky singing of a jolly sparrow, ignites the flurry of physical annihilation. A cataclysmic sequence of metamorphosis unfolds before the batsman’s impassive gaze. From within the coiled cloud of potential energy a kinetic force explodes – the ball hurtles unrelentingly forward, a vacuum enshrouds the ball and the batsman, as a grunt emits from the spent force of the pitcher. The queue at the diminutive tea hut, huddled over their steaming, polystyrene cups, appear entranced by the American spectacle. The batsman’s trunk rotates his powerful arms to meet the lethal projectile and with a bone splintering crack the ball tears a graceful arc through the bright, wintry air. The waiting batsman, nervously, but enigmatically reaches his left arm up and over his head, as he envisages his own triumphant act of supremacy.  The batsman regally inspects the flight of the ball as the fielders scramble to reach its destination. Two fielders, legs pumping, on a collision course doomed to failure. The hitter, his destination nearing, red faced, determined and fast. A blur of indomitable force. The fielders collide, the ball escapes, is finally gathered and in an explosive moment shot towards the final base.  In a race for the prize, ball and batsman compete for home and the ceremonious embrace of glove and teammate. A dive; a gasp; a moment. Americanisation encapsulated on a frosty Sunday morning. The enthusiasm, a distinctly and solidly American institution exhibited gracefully and with delicate Britishness.   British   Baseball . American Idealism. This is England.
 The pitcher surveys his territory. Cap low, hand clasping the ball within the dark tricky confines of his sweat soaked leather glove. The man with the bat, hat turned backwards, stick of Wrigley’s taunting his opponent, relaxed stance, bat swinging nonchalantly, a crooked squint beneath the Sunday morning shine. Backstop, crouched and ready, eyes narrowed, focused, unmoving; one signal, no; second signal, no; third signal, a nod of approval from the pitcher. The fielders, shuffle, hands ready; no need to put the gloves up to shield the sun, it’s behind them. The last batsman on 2nd, cautiously side-steps, his focus on the pitcher, fingertips caressing the earth, as he eases to third. The warlike, poised curl, as the pitcher winds up, silences the stoical fans. A cry from a distant football game, joined suddenly by the plucky singing of a jolly sparrow, ignites the flurry of physical annihilation. A cataclysmic sequence of metamorphosis unfolds before the batsman’s impassive gaze. From within the coiled cloud of potential energy a kinetic force explodes – the ball hurtles unrelentingly forward, a vacuum enshrouds the ball and the batsman, as a grunt emits from the spent force of the pitcher. The queue at the diminutive tea hut, huddled over their steaming, polystyrene cups, appear entranced by the American spectacle. The batsman’s trunk rotates his powerful arms to meet the lethal projectile and with a bone splintering crack the ball tears a graceful arc through the bright, wintry air. The waiting batsman, nervously, but enigmatically reaches his left arm up and over his head, as he envisages his own triumphant act of supremacy.  The batsman regally inspects the flight of the ball as the fielders scramble to reach its destination. Two fielders, legs pumping, on a collision course doomed to failure. The hitter, his destination nearing, red faced, determined and fast. A blur of indomitable force. The fielders collide, the ball escapes, is finally gathered and in an explosive moment shot towards the final base.  In a race for the prize, ball and batsman compete for home and the ceremonious embrace of glove and teammate. A dive; a gasp; a moment. Americanisation encapsulated on a frosty Sunday morning. The enthusiasm, a distinctly and solidly American institution exhibited gracefully and with delicate Britishness.   British   Baseball . American Idealism. This is England.
 The pitcher surveys his territory. Cap low, hand clasping the ball within the dark tricky confines of his sweat soaked leather glove. The man with the bat, hat turned backwards, stick of Wrigley’s taunting his opponent, relaxed stance, bat swinging nonchalantly, a crooked squint beneath the Sunday morning shine. Backstop, crouched and ready, eyes narrowed, focused, unmoving; one signal, no; second signal, no; third signal, a nod of approval from the pitcher. The fielders, shuffle, hands ready; no need to put the gloves up to shield the sun, it’s behind them. The last batsman on 2nd, cautiously side-steps, his focus on the pitcher, fingertips caressing the earth, as he eases to third. The warlike, poised curl, as the pitcher winds up, silences the stoical fans. A cry from a distant football game, joined suddenly by the plucky singing of a jolly sparrow, ignites the flurry of physical annihilation. A cataclysmic sequence of metamorphosis unfolds before the batsman’s impassive gaze. From within the coiled cloud of potential energy a kinetic force explodes – the ball hurtles unrelentingly forward, a vacuum enshrouds the ball and the batsman, as a grunt emits from the spent force of the pitcher. The queue at the diminutive tea hut, huddled over their steaming, polystyrene cups, appear entranced by the American spectacle. The batsman’s trunk rotates his powerful arms to meet the lethal projectile and with a bone splintering crack the ball tears a graceful arc through the bright, wintry air. The waiting batsman, nervously, but enigmatically reaches his left arm up and over his head, as he envisages his own triumphant act of supremacy.  The batsman regally inspects the flight of the ball as the fielders scramble to reach its destination. Two fielders, legs pumping, on a collision course doomed to failure. The hitter, his destination nearing, red faced, determined and fast. A blur of indomitable force. The fielders collide, the ball escapes, is finally gathered and in an explosive moment shot towards the final base.  In a race for the prize, ball and batsman compete for home and the ceremonious embrace of glove and teammate. A dive; a gasp; a moment. Americanisation encapsulated on a frosty Sunday morning. The enthusiasm, a distinctly and solidly American institution exhibited gracefully and with delicate Britishness.   British   Baseball . American Idealism. This is England.
 The pitcher surveys his territory. Cap low, hand clasping the ball within the dark tricky confines of his sweat soaked leather glove. The man with the bat, hat turned backwards, stick of Wrigley’s taunting his opponent, relaxed stance, bat swinging nonchalantly, a crooked squint beneath the Sunday morning shine. Backstop, crouched and ready, eyes narrowed, focused, unmoving; one signal, no; second signal, no; third signal, a nod of approval from the pitcher. The fielders, shuffle, hands ready; no need to put the gloves up to shield the sun, it’s behind them. The last batsman on 2nd, cautiously side-steps, his focus on the pitcher, fingertips caressing the earth, as he eases to third. The warlike, poised curl, as the pitcher winds up, silences the stoical fans. A cry from a distant football game, joined suddenly by the plucky singing of a jolly sparrow, ignites the flurry of physical annihilation. A cataclysmic sequence of metamorphosis unfolds before the batsman’s impassive gaze. From within the coiled cloud of potential energy a kinetic force explodes – the ball hurtles unrelentingly forward, a vacuum enshrouds the ball and the batsman, as a grunt emits from the spent force of the pitcher. The queue at the diminutive tea hut, huddled over their steaming, polystyrene cups, appear entranced by the American spectacle. The batsman’s trunk rotates his powerful arms to meet the lethal projectile and with a bone splintering crack the ball tears a graceful arc through the bright, wintry air. The waiting batsman, nervously, but enigmatically reaches his left arm up and over his head, as he envisages his own triumphant act of supremacy.  The batsman regally inspects the flight of the ball as the fielders scramble to reach its destination. Two fielders, legs pumping, on a collision course doomed to failure. The hitter, his destination nearing, red faced, determined and fast. A blur of indomitable force. The fielders collide, the ball escapes, is finally gathered and in an explosive moment shot towards the final base.  In a race for the prize, ball and batsman compete for home and the ceremonious embrace of glove and teammate. A dive; a gasp; a moment. Americanisation encapsulated on a frosty Sunday morning. The enthusiasm, a distinctly and solidly American institution exhibited gracefully and with delicate Britishness.   British   Baseball . American Idealism. This is England.
 The pitcher surveys his territory. Cap low, hand clasping the ball within the dark tricky confines of his sweat soaked leather glove. The man with the bat, hat turned backwards, stick of Wrigley’s taunting his opponent, relaxed stance, bat swinging nonchalantly, a crooked squint beneath the Sunday morning shine. Backstop, crouched and ready, eyes narrowed, focused, unmoving; one signal, no; second signal, no; third signal, a nod of approval from the pitcher. The fielders, shuffle, hands ready; no need to put the gloves up to shield the sun, it’s behind them. The last batsman on 2nd, cautiously side-steps, his focus on the pitcher, fingertips caressing the earth, as he eases to third. The warlike, poised curl, as the pitcher winds up, silences the stoical fans. A cry from a distant football game, joined suddenly by the plucky singing of a jolly sparrow, ignites the flurry of physical annihilation. A cataclysmic sequence of metamorphosis unfolds before the batsman’s impassive gaze. From within the coiled cloud of potential energy a kinetic force explodes – the ball hurtles unrelentingly forward, a vacuum enshrouds the ball and the batsman, as a grunt emits from the spent force of the pitcher. The queue at the diminutive tea hut, huddled over their steaming, polystyrene cups, appear entranced by the American spectacle. The batsman’s trunk rotates his powerful arms to meet the lethal projectile and with a bone splintering crack the ball tears a graceful arc through the bright, wintry air. The waiting batsman, nervously, but enigmatically reaches his left arm up and over his head, as he envisages his own triumphant act of supremacy.  The batsman regally inspects the flight of the ball as the fielders scramble to reach its destination. Two fielders, legs pumping, on a collision course doomed to failure. The hitter, his destination nearing, red faced, determined and fast. A blur of indomitable force. The fielders collide, the ball escapes, is finally gathered and in an explosive moment shot towards the final base.  In a race for the prize, ball and batsman compete for home and the ceremonious embrace of glove and teammate. A dive; a gasp; a moment. Americanisation encapsulated on a frosty Sunday morning. The enthusiasm, a distinctly and solidly American institution exhibited gracefully and with delicate Britishness.   British   Baseball . American Idealism. This is England.
 The pitcher surveys his territory. Cap low, hand clasping the ball within the dark tricky confines of his sweat soaked leather glove. The man with the bat, hat turned backwards, stick of Wrigley’s taunting his opponent, relaxed stance, bat swinging nonchalantly, a crooked squint beneath the Sunday morning shine. Backstop, crouched and ready, eyes narrowed, focused, unmoving; one signal, no; second signal, no; third signal, a nod of approval from the pitcher. The fielders, shuffle, hands ready; no need to put the gloves up to shield the sun, it’s behind them. The last batsman on 2nd, cautiously side-steps, his focus on the pitcher, fingertips caressing the earth, as he eases to third. The warlike, poised curl, as the pitcher winds up, silences the stoical fans. A cry from a distant football game, joined suddenly by the plucky singing of a jolly sparrow, ignites the flurry of physical annihilation. A cataclysmic sequence of metamorphosis unfolds before the batsman’s impassive gaze. From within the coiled cloud of potential energy a kinetic force explodes – the ball hurtles unrelentingly forward, a vacuum enshrouds the ball and the batsman, as a grunt emits from the spent force of the pitcher. The queue at the diminutive tea hut, huddled over their steaming, polystyrene cups, appear entranced by the American spectacle. The batsman’s trunk rotates his powerful arms to meet the lethal projectile and with a bone splintering crack the ball tears a graceful arc through the bright, wintry air. The waiting batsman, nervously, but enigmatically reaches his left arm up and over his head, as he envisages his own triumphant act of supremacy.  The batsman regally inspects the flight of the ball as the fielders scramble to reach its destination. Two fielders, legs pumping, on a collision course doomed to failure. The hitter, his destination nearing, red faced, determined and fast. A blur of indomitable force. The fielders collide, the ball escapes, is finally gathered and in an explosive moment shot towards the final base.  In a race for the prize, ball and batsman compete for home and the ceremonious embrace of glove and teammate. A dive; a gasp; a moment. Americanisation encapsulated on a frosty Sunday morning. The enthusiasm, a distinctly and solidly American institution exhibited gracefully and with delicate Britishness.   British   Baseball . American Idealism. This is England.
 The pitcher surveys his territory. Cap low, hand clasping the ball within the dark tricky confines of his sweat soaked leather glove. The man with the bat, hat turned backwards, stick of Wrigley’s taunting his opponent, relaxed stance, bat swinging nonchalantly, a crooked squint beneath the Sunday morning shine. Backstop, crouched and ready, eyes narrowed, focused, unmoving; one signal, no; second signal, no; third signal, a nod of approval from the pitcher. The fielders, shuffle, hands ready; no need to put the gloves up to shield the sun, it’s behind them. The last batsman on 2nd, cautiously side-steps, his focus on the pitcher, fingertips caressing the earth, as he eases to third. The warlike, poised curl, as the pitcher winds up, silences the stoical fans. A cry from a distant football game, joined suddenly by the plucky singing of a jolly sparrow, ignites the flurry of physical annihilation. A cataclysmic sequence of metamorphosis unfolds before the batsman’s impassive gaze. From within the coiled cloud of potential energy a kinetic force explodes – the ball hurtles unrelentingly forward, a vacuum enshrouds the ball and the batsman, as a grunt emits from the spent force of the pitcher. The queue at the diminutive tea hut, huddled over their steaming, polystyrene cups, appear entranced by the American spectacle. The batsman’s trunk rotates his powerful arms to meet the lethal projectile and with a bone splintering crack the ball tears a graceful arc through the bright, wintry air. The waiting batsman, nervously, but enigmatically reaches his left arm up and over his head, as he envisages his own triumphant act of supremacy.  The batsman regally inspects the flight of the ball as the fielders scramble to reach its destination. Two fielders, legs pumping, on a collision course doomed to failure. The hitter, his destination nearing, red faced, determined and fast. A blur of indomitable force. The fielders collide, the ball escapes, is finally gathered and in an explosive moment shot towards the final base.  In a race for the prize, ball and batsman compete for home and the ceremonious embrace of glove and teammate. A dive; a gasp; a moment. Americanisation encapsulated on a frosty Sunday morning. The enthusiasm, a distinctly and solidly American institution exhibited gracefully and with delicate Britishness.   British   Baseball . American Idealism. This is England.
 The pitcher surveys his territory. Cap low, hand clasping the ball within the dark tricky confines of his sweat soaked leather glove. The man with the bat, hat turned backwards, stick of Wrigley’s taunting his opponent, relaxed stance, bat swinging nonchalantly, a crooked squint beneath the Sunday morning shine. Backstop, crouched and ready, eyes narrowed, focused, unmoving; one signal, no; second signal, no; third signal, a nod of approval from the pitcher. The fielders, shuffle, hands ready; no need to put the gloves up to shield the sun, it’s behind them. The last batsman on 2nd, cautiously side-steps, his focus on the pitcher, fingertips caressing the earth, as he eases to third. The warlike, poised curl, as the pitcher winds up, silences the stoical fans. A cry from a distant football game, joined suddenly by the plucky singing of a jolly sparrow, ignites the flurry of physical annihilation. A cataclysmic sequence of metamorphosis unfolds before the batsman’s impassive gaze. From within the coiled cloud of potential energy a kinetic force explodes – the ball hurtles unrelentingly forward, a vacuum enshrouds the ball and the batsman, as a grunt emits from the spent force of the pitcher. The queue at the diminutive tea hut, huddled over their steaming, polystyrene cups, appear entranced by the American spectacle. The batsman’s trunk rotates his powerful arms to meet the lethal projectile and with a bone splintering crack the ball tears a graceful arc through the bright, wintry air. The waiting batsman, nervously, but enigmatically reaches his left arm up and over his head, as he envisages his own triumphant act of supremacy.  The batsman regally inspects the flight of the ball as the fielders scramble to reach its destination. Two fielders, legs pumping, on a collision course doomed to failure. The hitter, his destination nearing, red faced, determined and fast. A blur of indomitable force. The fielders collide, the ball escapes, is finally gathered and in an explosive moment shot towards the final base.  In a race for the prize, ball and batsman compete for home and the ceremonious embrace of glove and teammate. A dive; a gasp; a moment. Americanisation encapsulated on a frosty Sunday morning. The enthusiasm, a distinctly and solidly American institution exhibited gracefully and with delicate Britishness.   British   Baseball . American Idealism. This is England.