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The very last baseball metaphor, or:
Love, life and the Phillies' World Series victory
Baseball, love and rock "n roll
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2 minute read
Honestly, how many people really love rock ’n roll and baseball and not necessarily in that order?
It's why dancing to John Fogerty singing “Center Field” makes so much sense. It's why there are certain people on the planet who should have that song as their wedding processional even if they aren't getting married. How do you compare the perfect hook or lead line with the perfect hit-and-run, and isn't the perfect hook the perfect hit-and-run anyway? They should sing the National Anthem before a Springsteen Concert.
Those who love the game are its victims as well as its worshippers. Ditto for rock ’n roll. Some songs just goddamn tear you up but at least get you gyrating and sweating so the very pain caused is worked off in exhausted movement. Some games just tear you up but you were there... right?
Hey, I've been hit-and-run on. You? How many times in your life have you personally endured losing the game in the ninth? How many times did you send your soul's Mitch Williams out there and watch your own hopes, like a baseball, sail over the back wall into hellish oblivion and black nights? What did you do with your unused fireworks, babe?
As for love, some us are still waiting for our second championship, so we can wear our imagined wedding ring (in a figurative sense) like a World Series ring. And in love, as in rock ’n roll and baseball, sometimes the hero ends up being a short Hawaiian with fast legs and just the oddest accent when you were sure it was going to be the matinee idol with the cleft chin, the personalized bat and the visage of a condor. Sometimes you were expecting Bruce Springsteen and you get Buzzy Linhart. Or you’re waiting at the door for Linda Ronstadt and ending up with— well, I'm still working on that.
Then there are the rare times. Times when the concert is perfect and there are seven encores. Times when you look into her eyes or his eyes and everything you thought could exist does.
Then there are the times when the last batter really does strike out. When in stunned silence you sit there at a loss as to where the volume knob is, and then, suddenly, you won. We won.
Some songs are perfect. Sometimes you believe in love. Sometimes you win the World Series. But at the bottom….
Better the Bay City Rollers then a silent stage
Better a disappointing baseball game rather than no baseball game.
Better to have played and lost, etc.
Turn on the freaking amp. Pucker up. Batter up.
To read a response to this article, click here.
It's why dancing to John Fogerty singing “Center Field” makes so much sense. It's why there are certain people on the planet who should have that song as their wedding processional even if they aren't getting married. How do you compare the perfect hook or lead line with the perfect hit-and-run, and isn't the perfect hook the perfect hit-and-run anyway? They should sing the National Anthem before a Springsteen Concert.
Those who love the game are its victims as well as its worshippers. Ditto for rock ’n roll. Some songs just goddamn tear you up but at least get you gyrating and sweating so the very pain caused is worked off in exhausted movement. Some games just tear you up but you were there... right?
Hey, I've been hit-and-run on. You? How many times in your life have you personally endured losing the game in the ninth? How many times did you send your soul's Mitch Williams out there and watch your own hopes, like a baseball, sail over the back wall into hellish oblivion and black nights? What did you do with your unused fireworks, babe?
As for love, some us are still waiting for our second championship, so we can wear our imagined wedding ring (in a figurative sense) like a World Series ring. And in love, as in rock ’n roll and baseball, sometimes the hero ends up being a short Hawaiian with fast legs and just the oddest accent when you were sure it was going to be the matinee idol with the cleft chin, the personalized bat and the visage of a condor. Sometimes you were expecting Bruce Springsteen and you get Buzzy Linhart. Or you’re waiting at the door for Linda Ronstadt and ending up with— well, I'm still working on that.
Then there are the rare times. Times when the concert is perfect and there are seven encores. Times when you look into her eyes or his eyes and everything you thought could exist does.
Then there are the times when the last batter really does strike out. When in stunned silence you sit there at a loss as to where the volume knob is, and then, suddenly, you won. We won.
Some songs are perfect. Sometimes you believe in love. Sometimes you win the World Series. But at the bottom….
Better the Bay City Rollers then a silent stage
Better a disappointing baseball game rather than no baseball game.
Better to have played and lost, etc.
Turn on the freaking amp. Pucker up. Batter up.
To read a response to this article, click here.
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