The Bishop and the Butterfly: Murder, Politics, and the End of the Jazz Age
    Barth's picture

    Winter

    By Barth on Sun, 10/03/2010 - 8:30pm |

    As it is, by the way, it arrived only eight days earlier this year than it did last year, but it is here.

    And there is no use in mourning its arrival. It is inevitable as the last actual Commissioner of Baseball has explained to us:


    It breaks your heart. It is designed to break your heart. The game begins in the spring, when everything else begins again, and it blossoms in the summer, filling the afternoons and evenings, and then as soon as the chill rains come, it stops and leaves you to face the fall alone. You count on it, rely on it to buffer the passage of time, to keep the memory of sunshine and high skies alive, and then just when the days are all twilight, when you need it most, it stops. Today, October 2, a Sunday of rain and broken branches and leaf-clogged drains and slick streets, it stopped, and summer was gone.