While it seems odd to make a baked good in commemoration of a ceremonial first pitch, I’m forced to assume that’s what this is …
The civilian’s pants, the nervously clinched legs, the ill-fitting jersey, the forced smile, the scarcely prehensile way in which he clamps the ball — what about this doesn’t bellow “the instant before a ceremonial first pitch”? Given the gentleman’s palpable distress, it is certain that a humiliating short-hop in front of thousands soon followed. This cake, then, serves but one purpose: to remind him that he is now and forevermore something less than what we think of when we think of a man.
This has been your Daguerreotype of the Evening.
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