He dug in to the batter’s box, raising the bat high above his shoulder, his cape fluttering in the strong Bronx breeze. CC Sabathia squinted, checking Posada's sign behind the plate. He was calling for the fastball.
Sabathia, on the mound, froze for a moment before going into his windup. Jeter, playing off the bag, moved toward second on the delivery. Sabathia fired, and the fastball exploded out of his fingers and shot to the plate like a bolt of lightning.
Superman swung, missing the ball by almost three feet. The gust of wind from his swing roared up the third base line, nearly knocking A-Rod off his feet.
“SON OF A FUCKING BITCH!!!”
This was Superman, super furious, his jaw clenched in frustration. He shot the ump a dirty look, and the ump responded by spitting half a gallon of tobacco into the dirt. Posada threw the ball back to Sabathia, who was wiping the sweat off his brow.
Superman took a deep breath and stepped out of the batter’s box. He was deep in thought, his head at an angle. He walked around the ump, and crossed to the left side of the plate- a switch-hitter! Superman took a practice swing as a lefty, and his stroke was so impressive the outfielders stepped back to the warning track. Superman stepped back into the box.
Sabathia delivered and Superman swung, underneath the pitch. He fouled it straight back, and Posada didn’t even bother to give chase as it landed with a “Clink!” on the cage.
“MOTHERFUCKING COCKVOMIT!!!”
Nick Swisher bit his lip to keep from laughing aloud, and Superman launched his bat 450-plus feet into Monument Park
The Man of Steel looked serious. He crossed back to the right side of the plate and dug in deep, kicking up a storm of dust that had the umpire hacking. Suddenly he stepped out, and a sly grin came over his face. He raised his bat, smiling, and pointed to dead centerfield. He was calling his shot!
Brett Gardner and Swisher shifted towards Granderson in center, triple coverage for what was coming… although it still might not be enough. Superman got back in the box and reared back, ready for the pitch.
Sabathia took a deep breath, visibly tense, and checked the signs. He shook off Posada once… twice… three times. He finally nodded, showing no signs of confidence. Sabathia went into his windup… Teixeira wiggled his bottom in anticipation… Jeter bit his nail and went into a crouch… every player on the field was locked in concentration… and breathless with suspense…
The pitch!
Superman squared to bunt, and tapped the ball foul, four feet down the first base line. No one moved as it rolled lazily up the basepath, inches from the line. It came to a gentle stop in the grass, out of play. Bunting foul on the third strike… Superman was out! He stood frozen, his mouth open, his body still locked in its awkward pose… The moment seemed to last an hour... none of the Yankees could make eye contact.
Joe Girardi emerged from the dugout, walking towards the plate. “Hey,” he started, lowering his head to take off his cap, “how about we give you a do-over?”
But it was too late. Superman was gone. He was already two hundred feet above the stadium and flying away faster than a jet airplane. The Yankees watched him get smaller in the sky, his cape billowing out behind him. They knew where he was going: back to Tampa
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