We have come to the point in the season—exhausted, injured, limping, Halloween candy in the grocery—in which we question why we keep going to the ballpark. There’s much to be said for personal pride and individual statistics, and somewhat less for launching a fatal fusillade into the playoff plans of the enemy.
They need to keep playing because somewhere, for some family, or just one person, those nine innings are the difference between forced peace and awful reality.
My father died over a summer. The cancer diagnosis came just after Easter, the decline came throughout the hottest months, and he died with the season in October.