Lear in the Storm


I know you. Where’s the king?
Contending with the fretful element:
Bids the winds blow the earth into the sea,
Or swell the curled water ‘bove the main,
That things might change or cease; tears his white hair,
Which the impetuous blasts, with eyeless rage,
Catch in their fury, and make nothing of;
Strives in his little world of man to out-scorn
The to-and-fro-conflicting wind and rain.

What we see this morning in the sports pages is a rash and foolish old man, outraged by his inability to control what he can’t control, attended by a faithful daughter.

Baseball does not get much more Shakespearean than this. 

And baseball has suffered from the vanity of this man for how many years?  Baseball can thrive, baseball can be pleasurable only if those who are involved in it understand what baseball proves to us at every chance it gets: 

The natural condition of life is disappointment, and the sustaining pleasure of life is hope.  And love.  Baseball mirrors the human condition.  And no one can use it successfully to escape from that condition. 

A decent, loyal man about to lose his position (like Edgar?  like Cordelia?) says it best this morning: 

“I understand the requirements here, but the players are human beings, and it’s not machinery.  Even though they get paid a lot of money it’s still blood that runs through their veins.”   Joe Torre

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