Having said that, I had just one at bat to work with so I had to make the most of it. Luckily for my family and teammates, I made it magical.

For my lone trip to the batter's box I came to the plate at the single most dramatic point of the game (Rusty Greer's appearance not withstanding). The bases were loaded, there were no outs, and judging by the undeniable electric buzz in the crowd -- all 14,000 in attendance agreed that this game was on the brink of something spectacular. To the delight of Asians, the failed knuckle-balling Cobrasnake had just been removed from the mound for being unable to throw a single catchable pitch. Replacing him for Team Hardline was Chuck the Engineer -- their highest draft pick and a noted fireballer. Rumor has it that Chuck pitched in the Astros' minor league system (during the late 90's) as an up and coming closer.

As the story goes, he never made it to the bigs because he'd get angry during games and bean too many opposing batters. He wasn't wild at all, in fact he had managed to pitch for three years in the minors without ever walking a single player. It is still a minor league record to this day. He wasn't hitting people because he was wild, he just enjoyed it. In 1998, he was considered to be the most feared middle-aged closer in single A baseball.

Legend has it, in his final minor league game he hit a batter in the head and caused him to go permanently deaf. It was the ninth hitter in a row that he had plunked in that particular game, which ended in a vicious brawl that took the life of a sweet elderly couple. Chuck was immediately kicked off of the team and essentially blackballed from baseball forever. The government sanctioned ban went so far as to even bar him from playing social whiffle ball with family members. Chuck vowed to never to pitch again until the Old Gray Wolf came calling a few months ago and threatened his job unless he came out of retirement.

During practice sessions for the Great Game, while most pitchers were chunking up 50 MPH meatballs, Chuck repeatedly hit 88 MPH on the radar gun and showed absolutely no control problems. He threw fastballs, curveballs, sliders and change ups. Compared to all other pitchers in the game, he was Jordan-in-his-prime and they were all current-day-Donald Hodge. He mowed down hitters in BP effortlessly. Perfect strike after perfect strike. Finally, if we were going to be able to work on hitting, we'd need to get someone else on the mound or no one would ever make contact. He was that good.

Team Hardline knew that they had the deadliest weapon in this contest so they came up with a plan to rub it in. Sure, they could've started Chuck and he might've thrown a no-hitter, but as he stated repeatedly after exactly 45 pitches, he becomes completely gassed and cannot even walk. After all, he was a closer and his arm was not built for heavy usage. So they decided to start Corby even though he smells like hair, seems to have suffered some sort of a head injury and is absolutely terrible. As bad as he is, they didn't mind because they planned on giving our team a sense of false hope with Corby before bringing in Chuck to crush our spirit and mow us all down with perfect strikes.

Corby somehow managed to sneak through the first inning holding Team Musers in check due to three outs caused by shoddy work on the base baths. However, in the 2nd inning, with the HL up 5-0, Corby started things off by walking the bases loaded on 12 consecutive horrible pitches that had everybody wondering if this promotion was doomed. As I came to the plate, every single person in the stadium was thinking grand slam because of my tremendous power. During BP before the game, HL skipper Rusty Greer came over to the cage as I blistered bomb after bomb as if it was an easy video game.

"How do you do it, Big Ben," he said, smiling ear to ear as if he was talking to his childhood hero while holding up a humble high-five offering that I pretended not to see. "After all of these years, you still rake like an evil scientist on roids, you crazy bitch. You know I won't let my boys pitch to you. You might as well skip BP unless you just want to give your teammates and everyone here right now a show they'll never forget or something. But we'll walk you if you come up, end of story. You're that good, haus, and everyone knows it. You know it, I know it, and you know it."

But with Corby almost ruining the game so early on, Greer knew that this moment would dictate the outcome of the contest so he had to scrap his pre-game plans and pitch to me in this situation. He had no choice but to pull a ridiculously ineffective Corby and bring in Chuck right then, way earlier than he'd originally planned, or risk losing control of the game.

So here we were, already getting to the match-up everyone paid for in just the 2nd inning of play. Power versus power. Bases loaded. No outs. Game on the line. Rusty Greer sweating bullets in the dugout. You just can't write drama like this. You could've cut the tension with a knife. Rich Phillips was so nervous that a tiny fart accidentally squeezed out of his body against his will.

As I stepped into the batter's box the PA addresser urged all fans sitting in the outfield to seek immediate shelter. The table was set for the showdown. The game's critical moment was at hand, and everyone in the stadium was standing in petrified silence while holding up lighters.

The first pitch was a 91 MPH fastball aimed directly at my face. It actually barely nicked my nose as I bent over backwards to avoid certain death. The umpire didn't notice the contact because he was so excited and baseball-drunk in the moment. I wasn't about to take the easy way out, so I willed my nose to stop bleeding before the ump could notice. (Count 1-0) The next pitch was a 92 MPH fastball once again aimed directly at my face. (Count 2-0) The third pitch was the nastiest slider the ump 'had ever seen in 22-years of umping' but it landed an inch outside. (Count 3-0)

Before the game, Junior Miller had pulled me aside to congratulate me on my batting stance and tell me that no matter what anyone said (especially our figurehead celebrity coach, Homer Bush), I had an automatic green light if the count ever got to 3-0 during my lone at bat in this game. I looked over to the dugout and several of my teammates were crying and vomiting due to the extreme pressure of the situation. I gave them all a nod of confidence which seemed to immediately reduce the vomiting but did little for the waterworks.

I stepped back into the box and stared a laser beam through Chuck The Engineer's evil soul. The next pitch was an extremely rare hybrid of a knuckle-curve-circle change that had previously only been witnessed in Japan but I was expecting it and blasted it down the line in left, directly down the foul line. It was a moon-shot home run that some estimated to be in the 600-ft range, but it was riding the foul line like a bullet train on a train track. The blast was ruled a foul ball by the umpire, who was now crying a little bit himself. I gave him a mini-nod of confidence and he vomited a small amount in his ump mask which admittedly confused me a bit with regard to the effectiveness of the nod of confidence relative to vomiting. (Count 3-1)

The next pitch was a 21-MPH off-speed change up known in the seedy underbelly of baseball that no one talks about as the "slow-mo mojo-maker". It is illegal in the United States. I swung at it three times making late contact on the third swing sending a potential opposite field home run screaming down the right field foul line. At the last second, the ball veered off course into foul territory and disappeared in the parking lot behind the stadium, some 700 feet from home plate. (Count 3-2)

What happened next will be passed on from everyone in attendance from generation to generation until the end of time.

I proceeded to foul off precisely 40 consecutive nasty pitches straight from the depths of fire hell in a row. With each foul ball the excitement level in stadium grew increasingly higher until the place felt like it was about to explode. It was an epic battle for the ages. Two heavy weight boxers exchanging punches, each man unwilling to fold. Unwilling to lose. Unwilling to back down. Just like Rocky, but less Italian.

The next and final pitch, the 46th of the night for Chuck The Engineer, fell out of his hand like a wet Sloppy Joe and bounced half-way between the mound and home plate. He was gassed, right at 45 pitches, just as the legend had told. Ball 4. RBI. Flood gates opened. Dangerous weapon neutralized. Crisis averted. Game over.

Chuck was carried off of the mound on a stretcher. I made eye contact with him from first base in a quiet meaningful moment as he was rolled off of the field. Two warriors exchanging a glance of respect after a brutal battle. It was then that I gave him a quiet nod of confidence which seemed to elicit a tiny smile on the weathered grill of the lanky flame thrower. But at that exact moment, both paramedics began vomiting and once again I was confused about the nod of confidence.

And there it is. End of story.

Some people are calling me a hero today, sure. I don't mind although in my heart, I realize that I am just a man. I can only do so much. Especially when given just one at bat.

Oh, also, Skin got hurt.