Baseball is a work of art.
You don’t even have to know anything about it to understand that it really is an art form. The pitcher looks like they are so off balance that they should fall over, even when the ball is crossing the plate, exactly where they want it. The batter is timing the way he swings this chunk of wood so that it connects with this small round sphere that is hurtling toward him at just the right time, in the right angle, with the right force, so that it flies far into the field, out of the reach of every member of the other team, so that he has time to run in a big circle and hopefully get back to the place where he started so that his team gets one more point.
I watched baseball as a kid, and called myself a fan, but mainly, I was trying to find a way to connect with my grandmother. For whatever reason, she did not seem to like children, and I longed for a connection with her that I never did feel. Baseball seemed the way to do that. At some point, I realized it wasn’t happening, and I turned away from baseball. Much later in life, I wanted to go to Chicago, but with a husband who hated big cities, that wasn’t happening. Then I saw a way. My old friend….. baseball. His favorite team was playing the Chicago Cubs…. in Chicago…. on my birthday. It seemed perfect. I bought tickets.
I did get to go to Chicago, but I had forgotten how long a baseball game can last and how draining it can be to sit in the sun for hours on end. I also go sucked back into a game I had turned away from so long ago. Baseball was my ticket into the city, but as it turned out, it was my new escape. That trip was several years ago, and I now have a love for baseball that doesn’t involve trying to connect with someone else. Baseball is a thing of beauty. I can spend an entire day at the park, watching that beauty unfold, and in the end, it doesn’t matter who wins or loses on the field, because the real winners are the people in the stands. The fans. Those of us who watched that beauty unfold and found enjoyment in the moment.
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