and although the exact definition has been lost in translation, the meaning has been written on our faces.
The World Series commenced just as my reading of Michael Chabon's Summerland saw its protagonist and crew cross into a fictional realm where the fate of the universe will be decided by fireball tossing giants and nods to Norse mythology, and as I read more of this young adult novel, it becomes clear that what Chabon's book attempts to do is restore magic to the game of baseball, to characterize baseball fields and stadiums as places on earth where worlds meet, collide, and identities are shapen; and as we pointed at our TV sets last night--saying did you just see that?--Albert was pointing to the man upstairs and it was clear that there are base paths beyond base paths and worlds on top of worlds: what else explains number five's three home runs on five hits, six RBI's, and infinite number of total bases?
Chabon begins his book with a kid saying, "I hate baseball," and while the next couple hundred pages have been impressively fun, night's like last night are why anyone and everyone has ever dreamed about baseball.
Well done, Mr. Pujols, well done, indeed.
In Albert Pujols, In Bryan Harvey, In Michael Chabon, In St. Louis Cardinals, In Summerland, In Teach, In Texas Rangers, In World Series