I used to know everything, but I grew up.
The only thing I’m sure of these days is that I know next to nothing.
That realization forces you back to basics.
Hitters drive the ball up the middle.
Pitchers locate the fastball.
Fans locate the game.
Winter allows too much time to think and read. There are too many books and too many numbers and too many projections and too many predictions.
Some see baseball as art and others see it as science. It has been sketched as a metaphor and as a mathematical equation. It has been pulled and poked and shaped. But it can’t be changed.
Baseball is baseball.
It’s not about rivalries or rings or marketing or money.
It’s on the grass and in the sun and under the lights.
It’s about handing the ball to the starter and saying, “Go get ‘em.” It’s about writing nine names on a card and sticking it up with a wad of gum. It’s about digging and jumping and sliding. It’s about stealing bases and robbing home runs. It’s about throwing gas and taking hacks and the hidden-ball-trick.
And it’s always about winning.
It’s about you and your team and your scorecard and nine innings when nothing else matters.
Baseball is simple when you grow up.