Baseball exists as one of the few sports
not ruled by the tyranny of the clock.
It rolls across the American landscape
with a pastoral slowness, unencumbered
by the demands of ticking minutes and seconds,
without the noise of buzzers, horns and whistles.
This may be a good thing as players in the field,
standing as frozen as toy soldiers, can now
scratch and spit and spiritually contemplate
the ultimate meaning of the universe.
In the lull of games, they can dwell upon
their relationship to God, their purpose in life,
and other cosmic matters usually reserved
for the likes of philosophers and theologians.
Such idle time could hopefully be spent
pursuing ideas that are literally far afield.
The game then would be better served
by bringing to the majors thoughtful young men
who have more on their minds than
the location of the next ball coming their way.
THE POETRY OF THE GAME