Of rhythmic strings and a bleeding syringe, baseball is often a paradox. The basic game is regulated chaos, carefully confined performance art often disguised in metaphor by swooning scribes drowning in reverie*. This is a show, a worthwhile exhibition, unrehearsed and unpredictable human drama preferably played out under a blazing sun.
The momentum builds now, we can practically touch and taste the heightened tension, as Mike Lowell’s rage literally lifts him skyward, and Ryan Braun icily eyes down a game deciding moon shot, preening as he plays an action movie assassin. Oh yes, the merciless dog days have arrived.
God bless us, everyone.
For there are trades to [...]
Tea leaves. The I Ching. Extispicy. PECOTA. You name it, I’ve looked at it in my utterly insane efforts to predict the outcome of the 2007 Major League Baseball season, beginning even before pitchers and catchers reported to camp. Why on earth am I doing this? The answer, [...]
