Many of you don’t get us.
“Too slow”; “Not enough action,” you say.
On behalf of those who do get it:

It starts in the spring.
Hopes high.
Some familiar faces,
Some new and fresh.
162 games through which anything is possible;
Perhaps even a ride into October.
For us, an exciting game can end in 1-0 score
Or a walk-off, come from behind, homer.
We hang on every pitch.
We stay until the last pitch is thrown,
Waiting for that miracle comeback,
Knowing it’s not likely,
But one day, it will happen,
And we’ll be there.
We experience a sport of pressure and nuance.
Where a team’s fate rests in fraction of inches on a bat,
Down the line, up a wall, or off a glove [or a pole].
And there is no pressure cooker sport like it.
It may all come down to a single pitch,
Thrown to thundering rhythmic clapping,
About to shake the place apart.
We witness a stunning game where physics meets acrobatics and ballet.
Where fast balls seem to rise,
Hanging curves launch themselves off bats, and
Defenders launch themselves from the earth,
Twirling, spinning, and throwing.
We listen to the only true radio sport.
We see the color of the sky on a pop fly.
Hopes rise and fall with each game, each series.
And while it all happens,
We don’t just root for our team.
We adopt it.
Though we may never see the players up close, or even in person,
We “know” that it is our force of will that sends the ball sailing over the fence.
Into your outstretched glove, or over the plate in a knee-buckling curve.
We share your struggles;
We root for “our guys,”
And triumph with you, when that big hit, play, or pitch, finally comes.
And whether October ends with a ticket home,
Or to a playoff game,
We’ll do it all again next year,
And adopt you all over again.

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