Finn (massconsumption) is a reticent Sox fan hailing from Boston.
Luke (lukeisterrified) is from Canada. He likes the Blue Jays, we guess.
Despite mounting evidence to the contrary, we still believe baseball to be a noble and sacred pursuit, a microcosmic dance performed daily by men of interest and consequence. And while humbly we admit to being loyal fans and admirers of the game, we harbor no illusions about it being any more or less important than anything else the lot of us engage in to whittle away our time. Its borders contain the generous and the greedy, the immaculate and the stained, the humble and the arrogant. Some good, some evil, some successful, and some struggling. From this motley bunch, we pick out favorites and cheer.
The sport is but an extensively warped facsimile of life herself; in recognizing that, we honor it as we feel is most appropriate: with a heavy-handed balance of backhanded respect and churlish praise. Baseball is a silly game; its players are rude, boorish louts who, in their pursuit of the most unimportant of ends, occasion to touch the unimaginable apexes of fleeting grandeur. It is a recreation to which time applies only when one steps back far enough to observe an endless stream of the young and limitless careening inevitably toward the unseen margins. It is history. It is power, speed, dirt, grass, finesse. It is at once a stage for individual and collective competition It is love and war; it is jealousy and admiration; it is the daily manifestation of the fact that we cannot, in any meaningful way, change the things that we encompass or the fates to which we are tied. To us, baseball is life, and while other people and places may march on in different processions, we think that our little pastime is neatly and succinctly perfect. Baseball cradles the entirety of mankind in her bosom; these are her stories, her children, her champions.
