long season

I believe in the Church of Baseball. 

I’ve tried all the major religions, and most of the minor ones.  I’ve worshipped Buddha, Allah, Brahma, Vishnu, Siva, trees, mushrooms, and Isadora Duncan.

I know things.  For instance, there are 108 beads in a Catholic rosary and there are 108 stitches in a baseball.  When I heard that, I gave Jesus a chance.  But it just didn’t work out between us.  The Lord laid too much guilt on me.  I prefer metaphysics to theology.  You see, there’s no guilt in baseball, and it’s never boring… which makes it like sex.  There’s never been a ballplayer slept with me who didn’t have the best year of his career.  Making love is like hitting a baseball: you just gotta relax and concentrate.  Besides, I’d never sleep with a player hitting under .250… not unless he had a lot of RBIs and was a great glove man up the middle. 

You see, there’s a certain amount of life wisdom I give these boys.  I can expand their minds.  Sometimes when I’ve got a ballplayer alone, I’ll just read Emily Dickinson or Walt Whitman to him, and the guys are so sweet, they always stay and listen.  ‘Course, a guy’ll listen to anything if he thinks it’s foreplay.  I make them feel confident, and they make me feel safe, and pretty. 

‘Course, what I give them lasts a lifetime; what they give me lasts 142 games.  Sometimes it seems like a bad trade.  But bad trades are part of baseball – now who can forget Frank Robinson for Milt Pappas, for God’s sake?  It’s a long season and you gotta trust.  I’ve tried ’em all, I really have, and the only church that truly feeds the soul, day in, day out, is the Church of Baseball.


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