Watching Paint Dry

I've always been an enthusiast for the Fine game of baseball. I am quite lonely in this league, or so it seems, as most of my associates are keen to liken it to observing the freshly splashed whitewash of a skilled painter, which I suppose is a fair comparison. Both spectacles are drawn out, repetitive, and tend to the esoteric within: each one who is drawn to enjoy the fanhood of our pastime has their own personal mantras, and standards with which to judge. Every action, however agile or daring, is but a flicked brushstroke, adding to the tapestry of a solitary game. We are the judge and jury, the unblinking eye that haunts the gladiators, the roving observers who deftly pinpoint the flaws in a patch of perfectly white paint. For, perfection is unattainable, and knowledge of this is why we don't watch paint dry, and why we watch baseball.