The beauty of baseball lay within the ability to bounce back after a devastating loss. In one game a team can fall apart like a 1989 Ford Festiva, sputtering and burning down a darkened highway in Arkansas while the offense resembles something of a sedentary boulder in Appalachia, the pitching staff looking more like a hillbilly on his fifth gallon of moonshine, just a sip away from permanent blindness.
In the following game a team can look like a a brand new Canyonero, smelling like a steak and seating thirty five. Suddenly the ballclub can resemble a posh dance with business elites chowing down on toasted crackers dipped in caviar while sipping a 100-year-old whatever the fuck wine and making light of the economic disparity between themselves and the waitstaff.