PRINT Summer 1993


The pitcher fingers the brim of his cap, he brushes dust from his brow. His cleats grind into the mound, he plants himself solidly into that little hill. The batter, the one in red with a thick plastic cap on, shifts, a thousand times checking his grip. The runner also in red inches away from the canvas bag on first, a teasing dance full of bravado. The pitcher winds up his arm, the batter poises to swing, the man on first throws his body toward second. In an instant the batter pauses and the pitcher pivots. The runner is nailed at second. The execution of the perfect fake.

Her slick, seallike head moves in a stretch, the woman in this tape, smooth as shrink-wrapped plastic. When I first saw Head I had only one thought: I thought this girl must be one hell of a ride. That was what the tape asked for, it seemed to instigate or invite this kind of bravado, these pumped-up visions of domination

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