Yesterday I felt (or said I felt) annoyed indifference to the squabble of billionaire owners and millionaire athletes that sullies the purity of the beautiful game of my childhood every time their "working agreement" expires. The game has less than nothing to do with anything that matters. To hell with them all.
Today I just can't wait to hear the crack of the bat from Scottsdale and Jupiter, to learn the latest on Freddie Freeman and the other free agents, to follow "my team" from April to October. (Or is it November, with the expanded playoff scheme?) Will they sign Albert for a career-capping curtain call as DH? Can they land a better closer? Will the birds soar this year?
Why do I care? Why should I?
The first question's easy to answer: I care because I started to care as a kid in 1967, when the Cards topped the Red Sox in a thrilling World Series. I was hooked for life. Hope sprang eternal every spring.
The second is more complicated. I'm going to think about it, in hopes of coming up with something interesting to say on the subject when my annual Baseball in Literature and Culture conference re-convenes in Ottawa (KS) in July. I'm thinking it must have something to do with our need to care about something not so fraught with doom and devastation as a pandemic and a brutal unnecessary war on civilians. It must have something to do with our need to have "the world" not so much with us.
For now, though, I'll just go with Roger Angell's answer. Again.
“It is foolish and childish, on the face of it, to affiliate ourselves with anything so insignificant and patently contrived and commercially exploitative as a professional sports team, and the amused superiority and icy scorn that the non-fan directs at the sports nut (I know this look - I know it by heart) is understandable and almost unanswerable. Almost. What is left out of this calculation, it seems to me, is the business of caring - caring deeply and passionately, really caring - which is a capacity or an emotion that has almost gone out of our lives. And so it seems possible that we have come to a time when it no longer matters so much what the caring is about, how frail or foolish is the object of that concern, as long as the feeling itself can be saved. Naïveté - the infantile and ignoble joy that sends a grown man or woman to dancing in the middle of the night over the haphazardous flight of a distant ball - seems a small price to pay for such a gift.”
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