When the sky bruises, arbeit macht frei glows on people’s faces and fingers scrounge through pockets for a rabbit’s foot, ritual, anything to avoid the punch clock is a liar and a cheat. The 6 hours of indentured servitude was only 90 minutes. It’s the curse of perception.
But when it comes to baseball, I trust the any which way of black holes and tangents. Bring on the Cardassians. I’ll serve some tea and us enemies can chat about Pa’nar Syndrome.
Baseball is 90 feet between bases. It’s bullpens, shin guards, double plays, three strikes, and 27 outs. There’s enough cosmo physic pseudo explanations to wet dream Spock into neglecting the enterprise.
I like reaching the tip of my nose and almost escaping body and mind. I do my best to shoo away the bullet proof umpire vest calling me back into body with false promises. If I would just walk back into my mind, it says, and break up the coffee clutch.
Fat chance. I know better.
I know baseball fans want it all and nothing slips through their fingers. There’s Cuban defection, Bill Lee’s brownies, Pedro Borbon’s curse, Wade Bogg’s chicken, Fritz Peterson and Mike Kekich swapping wives, Dan Quisenberry poetry, Fernando’s screw ball. One soggy match is all it takes.
Baseball is a run on sentence and that’s a relief from the horror show.