Some people spectate magnanimously, wishing well to both sides, taking Kipling’s point about the twin imposters’ victory and defeat.
Well I can’t do that. The teams activate the warrior switch in my psyche, snatching my emotions from real work and consigning them to games of ball.
I cheer and pound furniture as they display non-essential skills. I construe that their performance somehow ennobles me, although rationally I know no surrogacy can do so.
There are things I care about more deeply than the teams, but nothing more intently in that summer inning when I’m rendered giddy by a base hit.
And when fall comes, a touchdown. And when winter comes, a slam dunk – none of which involves any more dexterity than a circus juggler or accomplishes anything as significant as the smallest civility you or I might exchange.
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