While the beating heart of America pulsed and hissed, filling
the air with havoc and pain, inside Camden Yards there was silence,
punctuated only by the solitary pop of the glove or crack of the bat. It
was vivid reminder that life is not a game, that sport, filled with its
metaphors and hyperbole is nothing more than distraction. The energy we
invest in loving and hating, living and dying with those who toil on
its stage is but illusion.
These stadiums serve as our
cocoon, our harbor,and haven, where we congregate to escape the often
harsh realities of the day. And when there is emptiness here, it is a
stark declaration that what is transpiring beyond its borders is too
volatile, too encompassing, too critical to allow us the luxury of
sport. It is in the vast expanse of empty seats that the limits of the
game is defined.
In the city of Baltimore, in the aftermath
of the killing, in the wake of its violence, in the depth of its
despair, the game of baseball played out in eerie solitude. We all
waited outside its gates, anxious for the moment when the anguish would
subside, the hatred recede, the heat dissipate and the doors open once
more to provide us shelter, at least for a little while, from the raging
storm.,
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