Baseball is a season. Fall,Winter, Spring, Baseball, it’s in the rotation
of the earth.
The season repeats year after year. So we remember the seasons before. When our fathers were young, when we were young, when our children were young, time after time, a succession of perfect summer days, defined by the simple geometry of the straight chalk lines and recorded in the kabbalah of the box score. Over 100 years of echoes going back into the mists, National Past Time, America’s game, a blessing, memories that resemble small swarming bugs, the sandlot, it’s we who are the luckiest on the face of the earth; because it all begins new again today. It’s an old game but every season springs hope eternal. But the only game that really counts is happening today and it’s right in front of you.