This, by my colleague @willrahn, is just a total delight:
"Baseball is like love in that it’s essentially impossible to say something new about it. The crack of the bat, the smell of the field—that’s all been covered at length. Great writers, for whatever reason, tend to love baseball. Maybe it’s the rhythm, the slower pace that lets the mind wander. Watching a baseball game is a form of meditation—albeit one you hope will be interrupted by hugs and cheering and high-fiving strangers.
Let me tell you the story of one such interruption. I’m a Mets fan, a peculiar and unlucky denomination of the Church of Baseball. And for my Mets, last season was supposed to be a nothing year. Expectations were at rock bottom. They lost their first five games. By June, they looked snakebit, finished, over.
Fast-forward to October. The Mets had remarkably made the postseason. But by Game 3 of their Wild Card bout against the Brewers—a consistently good team despite their middling payroll—they once again looked lifeless, and were trailing 2–0.
I turned off the game somewhere around the seventh inning and took my dog for a walk. I tried to buck up by reminding myself that they’d made the playoffs against the odds, that the season should still be remembered as a success, that we had a great team to build on for 2025.
In other words, I was depressed as all hell.
But as I walked back to our apartment, I texted my wife and asked her to put the game back on. Mets baseball was a major part of our courtship and, last year, her pregnancy. Our then-unborn baby had already experienced some 20 games, which is a lot of emotional turbulence for a fetus to handle.
Now we were home, huddled on the couch, late in her third trimester, to watch the season end. It was the top of the ninth inning in an elimination game. Exhausted by travel, the Mets had yet to score a run, and still trailed the Brewers 2–0.
Up to the plate stepped Pete Alonso, a great slugger having an off year. The night before, he’d literally tripped over his bat, setting up a double play that lost the game for the Mets. Now he was facing Devin Williams, one of the best closing pitchers in the game today.
And then, a miracle: With two Mets on base, Alonso hit a home run, putting the Mets ahead 3–2. I briefly left my body—I think dissociation might be the clinical term—but quickly returned as my wife grabbed and kissed me. We felt like we had just witnessed something impossible. It was like watching the atom split or the sun explode.
There were few cheers in the ballpark. The game was in Milwaukee, the Brewers’ hometown, and in a matter of seconds Alonso had ended their season. He ran the bases and gave a chef’s kiss to the crowd. And when he was finished, the whole team was waiting for him by home plate, tears in their eyes, jumping for joy.
I think that’s what it’s like to go to heaven. You round the bases and suddenly, all your old friends are there, weeping with joy because you are back together again. Show me another sport that brings you so close to the divine."
https://t.co/4QOmF3Up8n
If you tried to get into the blue seats of this bad boy without a ticket, an 80-year-old usher would slap you silly and send you back up to the red seats. Every single time.
The low pressure system over the region has given us quite the scene on water vapor satellite this morning: it looks like a hurricane over the Ohio Valley, complete with a cleared-out "eye" of dry air!
Selling weed literally went from major felony to essential business (open during pandemic) in much of America & yet many are still in prison. Doesn’t make sense, isn’t right.
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