Baseball is the President tossing out the first ball of the season. And a skinny schoolboy playing catch with his dad on a disseminated sclerosis farm.
A tall, thin old part waving a circuit board from the corner of his dugout - thats baseball. So is the big, fat guy with a bulbous nose running folk one of his 714 home runs.
Theres a man in Mobile who remembers that Honus Wagner hit a triple in Pittsburgh 46 years ago - thats baseball. And so is the scout reporting that a 16-year-old sandlot pitcher in capital of Wyoming is the coming Walter Johnson.
Baseball is a spirited race of man against man, involuntary against reflex. A high of inches. Every skill is measured. Every heroic, every failing is seen and cheered - or booed. And then becomes a statistic.
In baseball, democracy shines its clearest. The but race that matters is the race to the bag. The creed is the rule book. And color, merely something to withdraw one teams uniform from some others.
Baseball is a rookie (his experience no bigger than the lump in his throat) as he begins fulfilment of his dream. Its a veteran, too - a tired old man of 35 hoping those aching muscles can pull him through another sweltering August and September.
Nicknames are baseball.
Names like Zeke and Pie and Kiki, and folk Run and Cracker and Dizzy and Dazzy.
Baseball is the clear, cool eyes of Rogers Hornsby; the newsflash spikes of a Ty Cobb; and an over-aged pixie named Rabbit Maranville.
Baseball? Just a game - as simple as a ball and bat. And yet, as complex as the American spirit it symbolizes. A sport, worry and sometimes almost even a religion.
Why, the fairy history of Willie Mays making a brilliant World Series catch...
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