But now, those precepts are dead. America is carpeted with ghostly baseball diamonds and quiet suburban streets. Pick a beautiful clear day this summer, when school is out, and drive around looking for young kids, without adults, playing baseball. Or even whiffleball on a street. You'll drive a long time.
Kids play the game now only when their fathers organize it.
It's as though we're trying to revive a lost civilization on the bony, clueless shoulders of our progeny. On the freckled, anxious faces of the players, I see mostly boredom, or I see that they are frightened. You rarely see them smile. Hardly ever hear them laugh. But you will see them cry.