In customary times, blue skies and acres of baseball games, the trade deadline is a messy little creature, sotted with rash ambitions and boring regret, with cash considerations.
Some of it turns out fine. Or fine enough. Some not. Occasionally, it affords career headstone material, pending physicals.
The deadline is a complicated, frantic and spiritual exercise that is circus and ritual, mirage and holy day, cavalry charge and white flag.
In customary times.
This summer, the deadline is all that, the usual months-long ode to overanalysis and procrastination giving way to three hours of chaos, only ridiculously less certain.