“There are only two seasons -- winter and Baseball.”
I’ve also heard, there are two seasons, baseball and the void. The goal in the void is to get to baseball.
Anyone who knows me knows I’m insane for baseball. It’s a life metaphor for me, poetry animated, passion not quite sated no matter how long the season lasts or even when my team goes to the World Series. Which it did. Twice in three years. Winning both times.
Baseball is like reading a novel about Abraham Lincoln or the Titanic. I may not know the particulars in between but I definitely know how it ends; baseball will go dormant just as fall rolls into winter. Baseball will follow the leaves on the trees.
Even though I know what will ultimately happen, I’m enthralled every moment, alternating between turning pages faster to get to the good parts and slower to draw them out. When it comes to a close, whether October or November, I can’t seem to remember what I did before I began following the box scores, was enrolled in the chase.
I wonder why that is and if it’s that way for everyone.
- Is there something you enjoy so much that when its predictable end arrives, you are nonetheless somehow amazed?
- Stunned by the silence left in its wake?
- At a loss for what it was you once did before absorbed by that thing?
And again I see baseball mascarading as metaphor for life. Though my birthdays stack up and I know there are less in front of me than behind,
- Will I be taken aback by untimely conclusion?
- Shocked at how quickly time flew?
- Startled as though I didn’t know all along an end would arrive?
Well, 106 days until Spring training begins.
Excuse me while I wander off to contemplate. Making the most of my seasons, and the void.