PORTLAND, Maine --
Matt Spring stepped into the box for his round of batting practice, his low-maintenance routine — a helmet adjustment here, a half-step there — preceding each cut through the cool spring air. On the last pitch, a mighty swing sent the ball soaring so high over the iconic 37-foot wall in left field it might have cleared a structure twice as high.
His target is the Maine Monster, not the Green Monster, and this is Portland, not Boston. The grass is not green and luscious, but flat and mostly dead after a brutal New England winter. The players are not millionaires, but youngsters trying to make a name for themselves or veterans holding on to their playing careers, or something in between.
“It might’ve been a little wind-aided today,” Spring said after spitting out a wad of chew and removing his helmet, revealing a receding hairline that hints he is no longer one of the up-and-coming youngsters. “Not that I haven’t done that plenty of times before. It’s a feeling that not many people in the world get to do, watch a ball fly 30 feet over a 30-, 40-foot fence. There are kids that would love to do that.”
Spring talks a lot about “the world” — about how it’s not fair, about how you have to deal with what it gives you. And through a certain lens that’s easy for him to say. Among the 7 billion-plus people who live here, Spring is downright extraordinary. Few people can hit a baseball 400 feet or throw one 127 feet, 3 3/8 inches in under two seconds, and even fewer can say they play ball for a living.
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