Watching the Red Sox at the Blue Jays on a Saturday night,
although I don’t care much for baseball.
That’s not true: I enjoy games, not fandom.
I have never cared much about who wins in baseball.
Just now Hernandez stretched full out, leaping from the warning track
to rob Guerrero of the walk off run; the crowd groans. That’s baseball.
Earlier, the crowd cheered bonehead base running as the Sox gave away
an easy win. I saw it as hysterical, not criminal. That’s baseball.
Any good play’s a triumph, any bad one’s a tragedy.
Any underdog rising, any big dog falling: that’s why I watch baseball.
I care for the story of the game, not for the score. I loathe the blowout,
adore the nailbiter and the unexpected win: that’s my baseball.
I watch this one to the end, first time in a while, then go to bed; like not wanting
a book to end, then forgetting it once the cover’s closed. For me, that’s baseball.
Another game tomorrow, another winner, another loser.
Another story to watch and then forget. That’s baseball.
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