From here, even from the blue seats, you can still hear the sharp pop of pitched ball into catcher's glove, the crack of lumber on leather. Here is the answer to the real question of America, hinted at obliquely by Messrs. Johns, Ginsberg, Jefferson, and Koufax, the answer splayed wide against the sound of 40,000 people snapping into encased meats. It's here, beneath the costumes and the war paint, the answer buried deep in the dialectic of a 2-bagger peanut sack so perfectly Zen that Gary Snyder spontaneously combusts. Give me a perfect brat, a Miller Lite, and even Milwaukee feels good under the sun shining through a retractable roof. I swear, come summer, it flashes through the light of the Jumbotron.
- Eitan Kadosh
