Butchblog

I know it’s just a game and in the bigger picture, not that important. But maybe that’s why I love it so much. Baseball makes me forget about all the problems of the world, all the depressing news from the Imbecile-in-Chief, even all my personal demons. When I sit down tomorrow to watch my Phillies take on the Dodgers in the play-offs for the National League Pennant, I will be a happy camper, and will not spend one second worrying about the latest outrage. I’ll be Trump-proofed for 3 hours.

            But aside from my escape from reality, is the beauty of the game itself. Baseball is most often a slow, even ponderous, game. Unlike basketball or football, it is not non-stop action. The pitcher takes his time, consults with the catcher, determines which pitch to throw based on the accumulated knowledge of what the hitter’s inclinations are; then winds-up and throws a ball at 99 miles an hour. It’s a perfect blending of thought and action. The infielders and outfielders often do nothing more than stand ready at their positions, but still stay alert for every contingency, for every ball that may come their way; and we fans, if we’re knowledgeable about the game are also tuned into every subtlety of pitch, catch, and hit. I sometimes find myself literally on the edge of my seat and holding my breath waiting to see what happens next.

            I don’t go to the ball-park anymore. I don’t live close now to any major-league franchise, but even if I did, I would still likely stay home and watch the games on TV, where I actually have the best seat in the house, free from the distraction of screaming knuckleheads, and exorbitant ticket prices. Who pays $2,000. dollars or more for a play-off game? The World Series? Forgetaboutit. Yet I still have admiration for the energy and enthusiasms who do put the effort into going live.

            I played baseball when I was young, starting with little league, on up through getting— unfairly I still believe— cut from my college team. So I know the game on a visceral level. And the fact that I still can’t forget that long-ago slight, only makes my dedication to the game more intense. I can still feel in my bones the joy of connecting with a fast-ball right down the middle of the plate, or the ballet of scooping up a ground ball and firing to first a step ahead of the runner. But you don’t need to have been a player to enjoy the game. All you do need is a space to clear in your head to participate in this great American past-time. It’s at least one thing we can still be proud of.