I smiled at the youngsters pressed against the fence, with their eye-popping hero worship, talking to players and itching to catch errant fly balls. As a kid, I never went to a game without wearing my glove, ever hopeful to snag a treasure. I was not a gifted player, and as often as not I found myself relegated to the dreaded insult of right field, but despite that I've always loved playing and watching the game. He was right. It's full of pauses and time-outs and structured intervals between actions, serving up oodles of opportunity for woolgathering and wonder.
Baseball is a game that's wonder-full.
So slow, in fact, that in America, two-thirds of the way through each game, electric organs blare, scoreboards scream, and everyone in the stadium is instructed to stand up and stretch, lest thousands of people just plain nod out completely. Each captures the magic, the heroism, and the humility of the game. This stupendous accomplishment also means that six times out of 10 he didn't make it. And no one has done even that well in 60 years. If most of us did our job well four times out of 10, we'd be looking for work.