Baseball, we know, is precise, ceremonial. It's a world bounded by foul lines, marked by fixed positions. The playing field is neatly geometric, while the game itself is a linear equation of batters retired and runs batted in. It begins with a song nobody can sing, and it ends with hoarse whispers of "Maybe next year." The story of baseball is like some ancient Greek myth: meet the enemy head on, tour the bases, and eventually head back home, there to be greeted by friends who suddenly recall how much they have missed you. That's baseball.