Smart Play

“That’s what I love about baseball – it doesn’t mean anything.” – Woody Allen The sun is shining, flags are flying, Spring is here once more: fresh-mown grass, and onions frying – and so you know the score. No criticizing, analyzing – pack away the screed: today there’ll be no need for diagnostic apparatus: we’ll live without divine afflatus until the coming Fall. No gyres or Gaias, or signifiers, no pyres , no lyres, Heraclitean Fires: Just bunts and grunts, and foul-back fliers, and eighteen guys with heavy thighs, all chasing on a ball.