For me, baseball is the most nourishing game outside of literature. They both are re-tellings of human experience.

Stories happen everywhere, even on grass

There's something oddly true about comparing baseball to books—both are built on repetition that never quite feels like repetition. A fastball down the middle, a betrayal in act two, the same setup we've seen a hundred times before, but this time it lands differently. We find ourselves leaning forward anyway, wondering how this particular story will unfold.

What makes this insight stick is that it takes something we might dismiss as "just a game" and treats it with the seriousness we usually reserve for art. Baseball doesn't need to be literature to matter; it already contains the human stuff literature deals with. There's ambition, failure, lucky breaks, the weight of pressure, the sting of letting your team down, the electricity of performing when it matters. Watch a batter step up to the plate and you're watching someone's actual hopes and fears on display, compressed into ten seconds of decision and consequence.

The real power of this comparison is that it gives us permission to notice meaning in things we thought were just entertainment. Maybe that's the trick with any craft done well—whether it's written on a page or played on grass. It reflects us back to ourselves, and that reflection is how we learn what it feels like to be human.