THE STRANGEST PART was the celebration.
For nine innings, you could feel yourself drifting away from whatever recess of the brain that controls the perception of time. Baseball has a way of doing that like no other sport. The cliches highlight the absence of a clock, but there is more to it than that. It is baseball's rhythm, its pacing, its repetition, the meditative nature of its spaces in between; it is its mechanics, all arcs and lines and angles and spheres, movers and things moved, potentiality and actuality.
Form is not just shape, Aristotle wrote, but what it is to be some thing.