If I had asked myself why I liked baseball prior to this year, I never had posed the question seriously. I’d asked sarcastically, perhaps jokingly, but never earnestly: I liked baseball, as I had for most of my conscious life, because I simply did. I liked some features more than others, of course, and the exact terms of the appreciation shifted as I moved from childhood to adulthood and from fan to writer, but generally, on the whole, baseball made me happy more often than it did the opposite. I liked baseball; I did not think too much about why.
The End of Missing Baseball
