With the victorious White Sox concluding a surprising run to the World Series, baseball goes into dormancy for another winter. There is something bittersweet about the last game of the year, with the promise of spring training far on the other side of 5 months of sports not played on dirt. In my own life, there was the ceremonial putting away of the glove and the bat in the closet, tucked away until the fresh scents of spring meant chilly practices and a whole, crisp, clean new page for every team that plays the game. Then one year, the bat and glove stayed in the darkness of the closet come spring, never to emerge again. There was no reason to abandon the game, to let it go so effortlessly, and I'm sure I'm not alone in wishing it had been different.
So we watch the games on TV, watch the guys living out the scenarios we always imagined in countless back yard games, vicariously living through that moment of grace where we could be boys again. Somewhere in that joyous pigpile on the mound, a select group has been granted a reprieve from reality for just a while, until spring comes anew.
