Even as Western Civilization is burning, Nero and I are fiddling with our respective sports of the day. At least we have progressed from lions and gladiators to men in colored pajamas swatting flying objects with wooden sticks.
Baseball awaits. The World Series nudges the World Seriously for my attention. The outrage and wreckage of breaking news will yield to the poetry, drama and timelessness which baseball offers. It has been my alternative universe since my father took me to my first game at Ebbets Field in Brooklyn in 1939.
I'll be there taking my position on the couch wearing my game face. No fangs, but I may cheer and jeer sufficient to sublimate my hostility. Fandom is an inexplicable state. Belief in the primacy of the real world is suspended. Childhood is reenacted. It is theater. It is the restoration of law and order. It is civility. It is life.
At 162 games, the regular season is far too long. The postseason adds another dozen or more. Players are hurting and tired. Yet they are also juiced. Heroes will emerge extending the reach of the human body, but none are likely to display the arrogance of their act nor any vilification of the opponent as we see from the President.
Baseball is a game of failure. It is a humbling experience. After an overdose of audacity, we welcome those moments of humility.
The outcome of the World Series will change nothing on planet earth. Glaciers will continue to melt while ICE will remain cold and heartless. Perhaps people will note how rules prevail inside the stadium as opposed to the lawlessness of the real world.
This page was written while watching the game. The pace of the game allows for thoughts to compose themselves. Baseball halts the clock and that alone is worth the price of admission.
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