Last month I accidentally went to a baseball game. My friend gave me two tickets she couldn’t use, so I grabbed my most baseball game-ish friend – you know, the one who’s sporty enough to call it a “ball game” – and off we went.
Who knew it would win me over within minutes. The crack of the bat, the popcorn-scented air, the promise of cold beer delivered right to you by the yellow-shirted BEER GUY. Summer air, but with a hint of rain and fall, kids jumping up and down maniacally to draw the cameras, Sweet Caroline filling the air between innings. Darkness descending, the home team getting that final out as the crowd roars, fireworks sizzling up from the field and dancing along the backstop.
Any true baseball fan has read at least one of W. P. Kinsella’s books. His writing sings with love of the game. In Butterfly Winter, he writes that “properly played, baseball consisted of mathematics, geometry, art, philosophy, ballet, and carnival, all intertwined like the mystical colors in a rainbow.” And when explaining why he loves writing about baseball, he has said it’s because “on a true baseball field, the foul lines diverge forever, eventually taking in most, or all of the universe.”