Baseball Compared To Life Quotes

If there was magic in this world, it happened within sight of the three bases and home plate. All the gems in my world that decorated the walls and floors of dragons' lairs, the sword hilts of privileged princes, and crowns worn by emperors and kings, were nothing compared to the beauty and splendor of the diamond in Wrigley Stadium. It wasn't just a yard with dirt, chalk lines, bases, and a small hill in its center. Wrigley was a field of dreams. Dreams of eternal glory for the men who ran to the outfield, who took their respective bases, and prepared for battle against those who would dare enter their hallowed realm. Dreams for the kids in the stands, all wanting to don a uniform, kiss their moms goodbye, and wield their bats as enchanted weapons destined to knock the cover off the ball. And for the adults who had already selected their lot in life, Wrigley made the dreams of past innocence, lost wonder, and the promise that there was something inherently good still left in the world, come true. Yeah, corny as hell. But all true.

Traumatic events can be compared to facing a demon pitcher on the baseball diamond. Life tells us we have to take a swing at the ball, but engaging this demon comes with consequences. If you make first base, you’ll feel the need to sleep. Not so bad. Second, you’ll want to forget it all happened. Don’t we all? But third base brings the onset of madness and if you step off the plate there’s only death. In the great game of life, sometimes it’s better to strike out than hit a home run. After all, you can relax in the Dugout with friends until you’re ready to knock the demon out of the park.” Alexander Rollins, Keystrokes

We habitually compare ourselves to others to a debilitating degree, believing our successes can only be captured by how much we've outpaced someone else. We deal in acceptable ideas. We disregard our own capabilities. We waste a lot of time and emotion on what everyone else is doing well or badly, when we should be investing in and celebrating ourselves. And sometimes we simply forget that we like our own company, or that we love things for our own, deeply personal, individualistic reasons. In short, we forget ourselves, and how to be alone.

And the winner is,” he sings. He waits, opening the folded piece of paper slowly, drawing out the suspense. I can barely hear him over my own heartbeat, which is thumping like crazy. Is it too late to back out? Shit. I don’t want to do this. “The winner is the person who guessed twelve hundred and forty-eight!” The crowd is silent, and all the participants look to one another. But then I hear a thump, thump, thump, thump as someone comes up the stairs onto the platform. I see the baseball cap before I see the rest of him, and I hope to God that’s Sean’s cap. But Sean didn’t even buy a ticket. Not a single one. Yet it’s his brown gaze that meets mine. It’s his baseball cap, and they are his tattoos. They’re his broad shoulders and his long strides that eat up the distance between us. He turns his hat backward and looks down at me. He stops with less than an inch to spare between us. “Congratulations,” I squeak out. “You didn’t even buy a ticket. How did you…?” “I bought one hundred and forty-two tickets, dummy,” he says. My heart trips a beat. “You did?” All he had to buy was one. I put the winning number on the piece of paper I gave him. He nods, and he takes my face in his hands. His thumbs draw little circles on my cheeks as his fingers thread into the hair at my temples. “You didn’t look at the paper I gave you….” My heart is pounding like mad. “What paper?” he asks. His smile is soft and inviting, and I want to fall into him. “The one you put in your pocket.” His brow furrows. “Never mind,” I say, breathless. He spent 142 dollars for a kiss he already owned in more ways than one. If I loved this man any more, it would be dangerous. He looks down into my eyes, not moving. He’s going to kiss me, right? “What’s the plan here?” “I’m going to kiss my girl,” he says, smiling at me. My breath hitches. “But you have to say yes, first.” He hasn’t let me go. He’s holding me tightly, forcing me to meet his eyes. “This isn’t going to be a one-time thing.” I can’t even think, and he wants me to commit? “It’s not,” I breathe. “You promise?” His gaze searches mine like he’s going to find the secrets to the universe there. “I swear on your life,” I say. He chuckles. “My life?” I nod. His eyebrows draw together. “Aren’t you supposed to swear on your own life?” “My life means nothing if you’re not in it.” His hands start to tremble against my face, and he closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. Logan’s brothers start to chant, “Kiss, kiss, kiss, kiss…,” and the crowd joins in. “You better kiss me,” I say, “or they’re going to get restless.” A tear rolls down my cheek, and he brushes it back with his thumb, his gaze soft and warm. His eyes open, and he leans closer to me. I step onto my tiptoes to get to him because I can’t wait one more second. He stops a breath away from me, just like he did in the room. He waits. “You have to close the distance,” he says to me. He’s making me choose. I fall into him and press my lips to his. He freezes. But then he starts to kiss me. And all the fireworks at the state fair couldn’t compare to the ones that go off in my head.

In another surprising study published in 2010 in the journal Psychological Science, researchers Ernest Abel and Michael Kruger of Wayne State University examined vintage photos of 230 major league baseball players from the 1952 season, comparing the lifespans of the 184 players who had already died. Of the players’ photos in the baseball cards, 40% showed no smile, 42% showed a partial smile, and 18% had a full smile. Those players who had no smiles lived an average of 72.9 years, while those with partial smiles had a lifespan of 75 years. However, those with big authentic grins lived to be 79.9 years on average, approximately 10% longer than those who did not smile in their photographs. The researchers could not confirm whether any of the players were prompted by the photographer to smile for their photos or if they smiled spontaneously. At the same time, the data seems to suggest that distributed images of smiling people result in a longer, happier life. So smile in your photos!

Whereas classical physics describes the present as having a unique past, the probability waves of quantum mechanics enlarge the arena of history: in Feynman’s formulation, the observed present represents an amalgam—a particular kind of average— of all possible pasts compatible with what we now see...How come there is no evidence in day-to-day life of the strange way in which the past apparently unfolds into the present? The reason, discussed briefly in Chapter 4 and to be elaborated shortly with greater precision, is that baseballs, planets, and comets are comparatively large, at least when compared with particles like electrons. And in quantum mechanics, the larger something is, the more skewed the averaging becomes: All possible trajectories do contribute to the motion of a baseball in flight, but the usual path—the one single path predicted by Newton’s laws—contributes much more than do all other paths combined. For large objects, it turns out that classical paths are, by an enormous amount, the dominant contribution to the averaging process and so they are the ones we are familiar with. But when objects are small, like electrons, quarks, and photons, many different histories contribute at roughly the same level and hence all play important parts in the averaging process.

Late in his life, Leary looked back on everything he’d said over the years and compared his level of truthfulness to the batting average of major-league baseball players. “About a third of what I’ve said is just flat out bullshit,” he told a friend. “About a third of what I’ve said is just dead wrong. But a third of what I’ve said have been home runs. So I’m batting .333, which puts me in the Hall of Fame.