The baseball field is a study in fearful symmetry.
Absent players, the field can be read as an abstract work of art. There are the green and brown fields of color bisected by sharp white lines and three small white squares. The gently sloping mound faces home plate creating a uniquely American geography.
Seraphic Secret is not a sports fan. My tribalism is confined to Judaism. But I do appreciate baseball. And year after year I sit down and avidly watch the World Series, once again reverting to my Brooklyn childhood when Sandy Koufax was a modern day Maccabee. I do not root for any particular team. I simply enjoy the poetry of baseball; the crack of the bat, the thrilling plays, the duel between pitcher and batter, the exquisite balance between individual and team effort. And, naturally, I revel in the Hitchcockian suspense that characterizes the game, for until the last out is called anything can happen.
I choke up during the Star Spangled Banner, gratified to see all the players stand respectfully at attention. Most hold their caps over their hearts. Many have tears in their eyes. There is not a single player who sits or drops to his knee in protest.
The left has not (yet) poisoned our national past time as they have nearly every other institution in America.
As always, the on-air commentators talk too much. The players are in danger of creating a health hazard with their habitual spitting. The stadium organ pumps out the same dopey chords that will, thank God, never be mistaken for Mozart. At the seventh inning stretch, I too get up and shake out my cramped bones.
Most of all, I love the shots of the fans reacting to the game: joy, despair, hope. Eternal hope that their team will prevail, thus spreading a canopy of glory.
For a few glorious hours Barack and Hillary and Huma do not exist. The inbred grotesques who laughingly call themselves mainstream journalists are forgotten. The mud pit that is American politics and culture vanishes.
For several hours, American baseball fans are, well, Americans, held together by a shared history—Honus Wagner, Cy Young, Babe Ruth, Joe DiMaggio—and the love of the game.