The atoms of my brain are so arranged as to make me interested in baseball, one of the great good fortunes of my life, since for half the year it gives me something to look forward to almost every day. Which is why I hate the all-star break. Four days and only one game, a gaudy exhibition. Up from just three when I was young. There's nothing to do but meditate on the Twins. At 49-40, they have the second best record in the American League, and would be in the playoffs if the season were at its end. Can't be good luck to dwell on that.
I'll remember Saturday's late-afternoon matinee for awhile. I was in bed, letting invading hordes of microorganisms have their way with me. Happily, baseball doesn't lose a lot on the radio. I lay there, hearing the game and then not hearing it, knowing I slept by the changing score. Lots of runs. When I think back on it now, the air conditioning clicking on and off is part of the phantasmagoria. After about 3.5 hours, the Twins had won, and the post-game routine started up. That lasts long enough so that you can fade in and out on it, too. You could never have such a great time being sick if it weren't for baseball.
Comments