Midsummer baseball is a miasma of the forgettable, suffused with sentimentality. Oh, and the Phillies beat the Braves, 9-5.
Midsummer baseball is a miasma of the forgettable, suffused with sentimentality. The weather, particularly in the South, makes it all slide off your psyche like so much Faulknerian sweat, and rubs it to a raw red rash where your underwear meets your thighs after four or five hours among the plastic seats, watching the glorious butternut past stroke the pole of this summer at half-staff:
What do you know about this mendacity thing? Hell! I could write a book on it!