Last night out in the center-left bleachers, each time Barry Bonds came to bat, the crowd rose giddily to their feet. The stands brimmed with grins and shouts of encouragement and nervous energy. Mitts were pulled on and pounded in anticipation. With each pitch thrown to him, photoflashes flared all about the stadium like Chinese New Year firecrackers.

In his first two at-bats Bonds hit a double and a single. The crowd applauded appreciatively after each. It was far better than seeing the oh-fer-three Barry of the night before. The lead flipped back-and-forth between the Giants and the Washington Nationals as the two pitchers had their offerings slopped all around (and out of) the park.

Then: Bottom of the fifth, one out, no one on, everyone on their feet, all eyes on one man.

Three separate sounds essayed from the crowd when it happened.

At the crack of the bat, there was a beat of silence. A collective breath drawn in. Could it be?