Nothing says summer like baseball. I do love hockey*, which for those of us who still retain the attention span we had when we were three years old (the year I learned to read, and have never looked back) is the most exciting and least boring of sports, but the experience of being in a ball park is not the same as being in an enclosed arena.
Now we’re at the magical point of the year where hockey is in the post season, and baseball is just starting up, but enough time has passed to give you an idea of where the wind’s blowing. The Dodgers, artful as they may be, are chapped about Manny, and the Jays are off to the races, despite their pitching issues.
At this time of year, my eyes have to adjust from the free-for-all of hockey to the slow majesty of baseball. Nine innings? Nine? Can’t you figure it out in three? But if there’s one moment I savor, it’s the beautiful, zen-like stillness of a pitcher right before he throws the ball. And it never fails to amaze me that the human body, unaided, can throw something 90+ miles per hour. Then there’s the sweet swing of a home run, the batter’s eyes watching the arc even as he starts running for first base. I love the proud, yet casual dash of a home run hitter, joyfully tagging every base on his inevitable course.
Faithful readers may remember my endorsement of Josh Beckett back in 2003, which has been more than proven. I’m telling you: Travis Snider is a future star.
*Come on, Wings, bring it home again, the way you did on my birthday last year!