Finding Salvation In Baseball


Generally, pretending a problem doesn’t exist only makes it worse. This may not be the case with Donald Trump.   I no longer need to hear his voice.  It takes only his image popping up on a video screen to make me mildly nauseous.

I considered watching Trump’s address in Phoenix last night but decided against it.   In all likelihood, it would be just one more largely nonsensical rave, filled with falsehoods and general negativity, containing nothing good at all.  For anybody.   Just more fodder for his base, who, filled with the joy of madness,  have already taken leave of their senses.  He probably wouldn’t even say anything about the sailors we lost in the collision of the USS John S. McCain.   So I watched a baseball game instead.

Turned out that I made the right move.

After the game, one of the pundits told me that Trump’s campaign-type rally, only seven months into his first term, was in fact just one more negative, nonsensical rave, filled with falsehoods.   There was nothing good for anybody.   No real content about anything, including his much heralded plan for going forward in Afghanistan.  I was also informed that he ignored our sailors recently lost at sea.

Like any small child whose only goal is to irritate the hell out of you, the only sensible course of action with Trump is to ignore him, while continuing to demand that the Republicans, who hold the reigns of power in D.C., do what they were elected to do, putting the best interests of the country ahead of their own selfish best interests.

They need to either impeach the Donald or use the 25th Amendment to get rid of him as quickly as possible.   Why?  Because he appears to be trying to re-boot the Civil War, a position which is quite simply, nuts.

While we wait around to see what happens,  I am pretty much resigned to believing the only way to survive Trump, will be to watch more baseball.  Completely ignoring the crazy man in the White House until the miserable, cowardly Republicans lose their majority in the House and Senate in 2018, or even better, Trump loses the election in 2020.

Until the inevitable happens, whatever that turns out to be,  I offer the simple hypothesis that watching baseball is a viable alternative. It is at least, a way to stay sane, as Donald Trump appears to be an exception to the rule that ignoring a problem will only make it worse.

3 thoughts on “Finding Salvation In Baseball”

  1. I do not believe he is the change agent that is causing the civil unrest in the country. Donald is what he is and over 64,000,000 citizens wanted him to change the manner by which the democrats had totally corrupted the government..he is going about his business as elected while money is being poured into a vile system that is continuing to divide and destroy the American spirit. Obama initiated the corruption as well many of his minion and it continues…There be no validity to demonstrate that the President is or has been part of any corruption that assisted his election. However the attacks continue guided by those that lust to return to power and control of the country. Having lived 86 years now and survived most every curse and evil offered the country by self serving political bastards it saddens me that this is allowed to occur by a blatantly corrupt media and an out of control justice system….regrettably the progeny of those who have caused this catastrophe will be punished for their Fathers inquisitions……az

  2. An Argument Against Making Baseball Games Shorter
    by Emerson Gilmore

    In the Shenandoah Valley,
    deep in summer
    when the insects are the only things that move
    baseball is the backdrop,
    the screen-saver of life.
    It moves slowly
    as it has to,
    keeps pace with the
    sultry melt of tar
    under the torturing sun.
    It lasts until the final out says
    the coda to the day may begin.
    On Sunday afternoons farmers,
    framers, plumbers, carpenters,
    attorneys, politicians
    all stop and listen.
    They doze next to
    sweating pitchers of lemonade
    while sweating pitchers of
    fast balls and curves throw,
    punctuated only by
    the crack of the bat or
    the pop when the ball hits the mitt.
    A.J. and all the others
    resting and rocking in the Valley
    hear the hits when they need to,
    otherwise pulse gently, thoughtlessly
    in the hands of God.

    There is no notion that
    the game is too long.
    The blessed boredom extends
    minutes into hours,
    hours into half-days.
    Each inning lengthens time,
    pushes death away
    for a few more outs.
    A.J. takes a few more breaths,
    prays the game never ends.

    If God has a game
    it is baseball.
    The Zen-like pace
    fits His kingdom,
    implies eternity
    to the mortals who
    play and listen.
    The longer the game,
    the more who die happy.
    “Take me out to the ballgame.”
    Take me out during the ballgame.
    It is a glorious time of
    speed slowed, of life
    catching its breath,
    of death not catching up.

    In the seventh inning
    A.J. stretches, sweet as prayer,
    sighs, says,
    “I don’t care if
    I never get back.”

    1. Emerson, thank you. I am a Red Sox fan, and though I don’t identify as such, a baseball fan. Staining the clapboards or charging the riding mower up and down over our 4 acres, I recall listening to my Walkman, urging the Sox to put the game away, while the crossed purpose of keeping it going until the last patch was done tugged at me. Your poem was evocative of those times, and even younger days with a transistor radio. Your cousin, Charlie

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