Nick Punto, Chip Caray and the Platonic Essence of a Base Hit

Below is a maximum resolution clip of a play in the 10th inning of the 2009 play in game between the Minnesota Twins and the Detroit Tigers.  A play-by-play of one of the greatest games in Twins history can be found here.  But that's not the point.  Note video below.

"BASE HIT!" TBS announcer Chip Caray exclaims as Punto smacks the ball authoritatively to left, followed immediately by a somewhat contradictory "Caught out there!".  Then Alexi Castilla makes everything ten times worse by being easily mowed down at the plate by Ryan Raburn.

"Damnit, Alexi Castilla" - Plato

Now, for those who seem to believe that Chip Caray made a stupid, hilarious mistake, I posit a different theory.  You see, Caray recognized Punto's talent for what it is, a universal platonic Form.  Of course Punto intended to get a hit, but it was unfortunately (and inexplicably) caught.  But since Punto's talent is universal, infallible, and immaculate, similar to Plato's ideals of justice, unity, and beauty, Punto's hit was not a fly out, but rather a base hit that just happened to be caught.  Plato acknowledges that all physical manifestations of Forms are imperfect, and this just happens to be a very imperfect manifestation of Punto's pristine talent.  With this, we can see that Caray's pronouncement was not mere boneheaded happenstance, but truly a proclamation of his belief in Plato's Theory of Forms, and of Nick Punto himself as existing in the intelligible realm.

It is rumored that in the subsequent commercial break between the bottom of the tenth and top of the eleventh, Caray looked at the boom operator dead in the eyes and said, "For now, I am content to be a naive observer, watching the shadows dance on the wall of the cave.  But someday... someday I will emerge from the cave and finally observe the world around me.  And Nick Punto will be there, sliding head-first into first base."

True Grit -- A Serialized Novel: Chapter Two: Strange Medicine on the Desert

           

             Punto glanced at the fuel gauge as the Firebird continued its prowl down the desert highway.  He glanced over his shoulder at the body-shaped figure, concealed by a blanket, in the back seat. "Still no movement," Nick thought, "I'm no doctor, but that ain't good.  Oh well, fuck it."  Nick propped his knees up against the wheel to keep the car straight as he began to roll a blunt.

            "Hey, Bartlett," he asked, licking the rolling paper, "you got a light?"

            "Sure." Bartlett tossed Punto his bic.  Punto finished rolling the joint, ignited the end and took a long hit.  He accelerated gradually as he slumped back in his seat.  Everything really was going relatively well, he realized. As long as they just kept going steady through into Vegas, with no more setbacks or stops for infield practice, no one who was chasing them would be able to catch up in time.

            Suddenly Punto's eyes twitched.  The road ahead convulsed, and Punto leaned forward as the car hugged the curvature of the earth.  Fuck.  When that shifty Venezuelan behind the 7-Eleven in San Bernadino said this chronic would blow his brains out, he didn't think... oh shit...

            Suddenly a gruesome black mass rose up in the rearview mirror, and there was a terrible roar.  Punto knew that they were back. He looked back into the mirror, the sky was full of what looked like huge bats, all swooping and screeching and diving around the car.