You can hear the game from a distance, announced by repeated cries of "it-a-bip," a long, modulated and bewildering wail; a modified version of "at a boy" rendered all but incomprehensible by an unknown regional dialect or a powerful speech impediment.

Both teams of nearly teenage boys have stepped directly out of the 1940's, neglecting to change their uniforms upon arrival in the 21st century. In red, the Charlottetown Undecipherable Lettering are playing the Somebody's Auto Supply, outfitted in blue. It hasn't rained in over a week and both teams are wearing impressive amounts of the field. The dirt that hasn't attached itself to the players is hurrying out to left field, spurred onwards by the wind.

The home plate umpire is loud and dramatic and carries a gut that renders him impervious to wild pitches. He is yelling at blue's coach who is returning the favour with enthusiasm. An errant pitch has allowed the runner at first to steal second. The runner is now walking to the dugout, scraping dirt from his eyes and nose, spitting grime from between his lips - this after he slid head-first into third. The umpire claims the throw from centre field - where the ball lay after the second basemen missed the throw from the catcher - beat the dirt-encrusted base runner. Both teams congratulate the ump on his call, though the blue team does so with withering sarcasm.

Red replaces blue on the field, "Bishy" taking the mound. "Bishy" throws two kinds of pitches: balls and hits. The first batter walks, as does the second. The third brings the first home, the fourth brings the second and the third home, the fifth is walked, and the sixth grounds out, but manages to bring the fourth and fifth home. The very few people who claim to know the score are parents of the boys dressed in red. If "Bishy" allows another three runs - some say four - the game will be tied. This is the seventh, and last inning of play.

"Bishy," his red uniform streaked with grass stains from an earlier tour of duty in the outfield, allows two more runs. With only one out, and with either the winning or tying run (depending on the score) at second, "Bishy" finds the strike zone. He throws three consecutive strikes past a blue player more interested in adjusting his oversized batting helmet than swinging. The one swing launched is an awkward bludgeoning motion which could never result in a decent hit, but is delivered with the zeal that gives even horrible players something coaches refer to as "potential."

The newest batter, and possible third out, is a five and a half foot monster: all awkward spindly limbs, but with an impressive reach. His first swing is too early and sends the ball dribbling foul down the third baseline. His second attempt is a bizarre swinging bunt, jeered by both teams alike, though the blue squad adds a few words of encouragement as afterthoughts. The monster steps back from the plate and drags his cleats awkwardly across the ground as if scraping something from his feet. His pride possibly, or maybe his dignity.

"Bishy" has pitched seven straight strikes - by far the most remarkable and consistent pitching of the game. The umpire is calling the strikes long and loud, his face reddening with the effort. As the score is still being tabulated and debated fiercely, it is unclear what will result from a third strike and the subsequent third out, but it is certainly far better, for supporters of the red, than letting the little giant, now back in the batters box, on base.

The pitch is a strike from the moment it leaves "Bishy's" hands to the moment that it connects with the barrel of the bat. The ball reverses direction, heading for the outfield at an unreachable height somewhere between six and seven feet. All three outfielders run for the fence, converging on the ball, which has fallen considerably short of that line of demarcation, at nearly the same moment. Number eight launches the ball blindly towards the infield as the first run scores.

When the giant hits home the game is over, blue carrying the day by a run or two, and the ball is lost somewhere in the red team's dugout.

Matthew Dorrell throws a wicked circle change. For strikes.