The postseason is still just a smudge on the horizon, blurred beyond recognition by the quivering heat of July and August. And you expect me to accurately predict the fates of thirty teams assembled by committee? Okay, sure. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I didn’t fall in love with baseball for the short-burst glory of the postseason. It’s the months of unpredictability before the playoffs that hooked me.
Baseball is about homestands and road trips packed with unpredictable moments. Some of them are even unforgettable. When I think about the moments that have lingered for the nearly forty years I’ve been a fan, very few have anything to do with how my White Sox finished. Winning it all in 2005 isn’t something I’d ever give back, but seeing the final out of that World Series was special because of all the small moments that preceded it that season and the other thirty seasons I’d been a fan. For instance, those moments back in 1990, when a friend and I took our sweet time leaving old Comiskey Park after the final out of the last game I’d ever see there, my first as an adult. An usher spotted us lingering at the rail above the box seats. He waved, encouraging us to walk down to the seats behind home plate. He knew this was where I’d been introduced to big league ball, where I’d become a fan. He must have. “Have a seat,” he said. “There’s time.”
- TS Flynn
Read the rest: "Predictions" (Hobart)
Photo by TS Flynn