A tiny stereotypical baby is playing catcher behind home plate. I am batting, and a deranged man is the pitcher. He’s throwing one ball every four seconds or so, and I must hit every ball so that the baby, wearing an oversized catcher’s mitt and oblivious to the potential danger he is in, doesn’t get hit by the balls. My bat morphs into a thick noodle, so I need to swing harder to keep it straight enough to deflect the balls. I am getting increasingly exhausted and the pitches are increasing in speed and movement. I fear for the baby, but there’s only so much I can do.