Dear Reader

Dear Reader,

Some years ago, while climbing a volcano in Washington State, I realized something really important about baseball.

Five friends and I were climbing Mount Rainier on a route that took three days. It was a stressful time for me, with too many hours at work and too few with my wife and kids. But high up on a steep glacier, carrying a heavy pack and an ice ax and roped up to the other climbers, I felt ridiculously happy.

Part of it was our team; we all had one another’s backs in this awesome place. But my happiness also had to do with the pace and the breathing. You swing your crampon-toothed boot hard into the glacier, shift your weight onto that leg, rise up, lock your knee, blow out hard, breathe, and then repeat. Shift weight, rise up, blow out, breathe. Same rhythm, hour after hour. This turned out to be no extreme sport. It was literally a breather.

I wondered if another pastime could provide the same feeling without the glacier and thought: America’s pastime.

Baseball has its exciting moments, but its beauty lies in its intricate rhythm: the pitcher on the mound, the innings, the indispensable seventh-inning stretch. I remember achieving glacier-worthy joy with minimal effort watching the minor league Greensboro Bats in North Carolina while drinking a fine microbrew. (Today the team calls itself the Grasshoppers, which I frankly consider an insult to my favorite flying mammal.)

Double-A and Triple-A ball do better than other entertainment options at providing what I found on Mount Rainier: a breather, combined with the social pleasure of supporting a team. On page 48, you’ll find an inspiring example of that spirit, one that mercifully counters the currents of our daily personal and public lives. Plus, the story comprises two words that we need more than ever:

Home, team.

Jay Heinrichs