Church of Baseball

I believe in the Church of Baseball.

I’ve tried all the major religions, and most of the minor ones.

I’ve worshipped Buddha, Allah, Brahma, Vishnu, Siva, trees, mushrooms, and Isadora Duncan.

I know things.

For instance, there are 108 beads in a Catholic rosary and there are 108 stitches in a baseball.

When I heard that, I gave Jesus a chance.

But it just didn’t work out between us.

The Lord laid too much guilt on me.

I prefer metaphysics to theology.

You see, there’s no guilt in baseball, and it’s never boring… which makes it like sex.

There’s never been a ballplayer slept with me who didn’t have the best year of his career.

Making love is like hitting a baseball: you just gotta relax and concentrate.

Besides, I’d never sleep with a player hitting under .250… not unless he had a lot of RBIs and was a great glove man up the middle.

You see, there’s a certain amount of life wisdom I give these boys.

I can expand their minds. Sometimes when I’ve got a ballplayer alone, I’ll just read Emily Dickinson or Walt Whitman to him, and the guys are so sweet, they always stay and listen.

‘Course, a guy’ll listen to anything if he thinks it’s foreplay.

I make them feel confident, and they make me feel safe, and pretty.

‘Course, what I give them lasts a lifetime; what they give me lasts 142 games.

Sometimes it seems like a bad trade.

But bad trades are part of baseball – now who can forget Frank Robinson for Milt Pappas, for God’s sake?

It’s a long season and you gotta trust it.

I’ve tried ’em all, I really have, and the only church that truly feeds the soul, day in, day out, is the Church of Baseball.

Annie Savoy played by Susan Sarandon in Bull Durham

The Meanest Flower

Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting

The Soul that rises with us, our life’s Star,

Hath had elsewhere its setting,

And cometh from afar:

Not in entire forgetfulness,

And not in utter nakedness,

But trailing clouds of glory do we come

From God, who is our home.

Though nothing can bring back the hour

Of splendor in the grass, of glory in the flower;

We will grieve not, rather find

Strength in what remains behind;

In the primal sympathy

Which having been must ever be;

In the soothing thoughts that spring

Out of human suffering;

In the faith that looks through death,

Thanks to the human heart by which we live,

Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears,

To me the meanest flower that blows can give

Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.

-Bits and pieces taken from”Ode: Intimations of Immortality” by William Wordsworth

For the full poem, Click HERE*