Baseball presents a living heritage, a game poised between the powerful undertow of seasons past and the hope of next day, next week, next year.
Normal people have an incredible lack of empathy. They have good emotional empathy, but they don’t have much empathy for the autistic kid who is screaming at the baseball game because he can’t stand the sensory overload. Or the autistic kid having a meltdown in the school cafeteria because there’s too much stimulation.
Yes, we’ve seen it all before. And yes, those who do not study history are condemned to repeat it. But no, the sky is not falling – baseball is such a great game that neither the owners nor the players can kill it. After some necessary carnage, market forces will prevail.
Finally, for all of us but a lucky few, the dream of playing big-time baseball is relinquished so we can get on with grown-up things.
Poets are like baseball pitchers. Both have their moments. The intervals are the tough things.
Ethnic life in the United States has become a sort of contest like baseball in which the blacks are always the Chicago Cubs.
Baseball has undergone and absorbed a whole set of dislocations.
One of the first lessons he or she learns is that in baseball anything, absolutely anything, can happen. Just two days ago as I write this, something happened that had never happened in baseball before.
Donning a glove for a backyard toss, or watching a ball game, or just reflecting upon our baseball days, we are players again, forever young.
There’s nothing bad that accrues from baseball.