Kid, just make sure you know in advance:
basically, baseball is a game of waiting.
You dredge up your own entertainment:
the drudgery you combat with imagination,
the monotony you attack with anticipation.
Imagine: standing in a field, the ball snug
inside your pitcher's glove while he stalks
the mound, upset with the umpire's call.
The dirt beneath your feet gray, slippery;
the sky above you all billowing wind.
It is a cold that is singular--essential, even--to baseball,
one which will endure in your memory for far longer
than any individual at bat, any fielded fly.
Soon, the pitcher will sling the ball towards the plate,
and maybe the ensuing hit will come your way,
though probably not.
But that moment before he throws the ball:
that moment is baseball.
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