It’s a rainy, cold Saturday in Westchester County, New York. In a few hours my wife and I will drive south to Citi Field. We’ll grab some Shake Shack and a beer, and we’ll sit back in the wind and potential wet snow and freeze our butts off.
All to watch an 0-4 team predetermined by the world to be nothing short of terrible this season.
You may call that self-induced torture, but I call it Baseball Zen.
Last week I wrote a piece describing such a feeling, that of sitting back, not worrying about the images on television and descriptions on radio.