I remember the Dodgers.
They were a big part of my life. They used to play at this place called Dodger Stadium, and it was pretty spectacular. The cast would change, but their story was epic.
And then coronavirus came, and baseball ceased to be.
I’ve been a fan through 40-plus offseasons and my share of labor stoppages. This is different. The offseason hums with activity from awards season into Spring Training. A strike or lockout is baseball’s heart of darkness, but even then it draws your focus into the mechanics of the negotiations, the slim reeds of hope.
The novel coronavirus has taken over the field now, and baseball isn’t even in the ballpark. We’ve lost the plot. Clayton Kershaw is just a dad of three like me, tending to his family.
Baseball is a ghost, a fossil pressed into amber. A historical artifact. We can only wonder when the dinosaurs will return.
There’s one twist to this. I’ve watched snippets of old Dodger games on SportsNet LA over the past couple of days, and Vin Scully is crackling across the airwaves, completely in his element.
In an apocalypse, you can do worse then lose yourself in that Fordham drawl.
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