There's a special kind of guilt I feel upon consciously investing emotional significance in a baseball game. It comes from the rational, adult, part of my mind, the part that realizes the absurdity of rooting for laundry. The part that's acutely aware of the utter inconsequence of nine millionaires' athletic pursuits when eight million people die from hunger each year, ISIS rapes eight-year olds, and we seem to have another mass shooting every day.
It's as if a voice is telling me, in the meaning-investing moments, that whatever portion of my limited time on Earth I've devoted toward caring the slightest bit about who wins a given sporting event could be better spent on an infinite number of other, worthier pursuits.