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Los Angeles Angels

Mourn the Angels if you must, but baseball remains a cut above

Mourn the Angels if you must, but baseball remains a cut above

I see a ballfield the way a sailor sees the sea. Beneath the obvious mowing patterns, I can make out the faint paths where the grounds crew cuts it foul pole to foul pole, so as not to emboss the outfield with game-changing ridges. This secondary mowing pattern is subtle, and you have to hunt for it: a stubble beneath the stubble, a 4 o'clock shadow. That's baseball for you, all nuance and subtext. I have given my life to the game. I have played it (poorly), coached it (excessively) and romanticized it (shamelessly). Some day, I hope to get a life. Late summer, and all I'm really craving is a little lake and a large novel. Yet, here I am, back at an old ballyard, chasing...

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