One of the things I miss most about living on the east coast is the change of the seasons - the clear delineations between the autumnal explosion of fall, frigid, desolate winter, muddy-to-verdant spring and hell (summer). On the west coast, we must become more creative in the ways we track the passing of time: The amount of light left in the sky at dinnertime, the volume of slop accidentally tracked into the house, the ratio of layers on our bodies to layers cast aside or carried in our arms. And, for some, it’s measured by baseball; its presence, its absence, the agonies and ecstasies.
For baseball fans who have lost someone
