And in the End.

Baseball is like the boy you meet when you get a job selling ice cream to tourists during a hot, sticky-sweet, teenaged summer. He's cute. He makes you laugh. He keeps you amused through the long, grueling hours and through the boring, dull ones when it's pouring rain out. And that's all that he needs to be and all that he he needs to do.

A summer fling is uncomplicated. It's easy. It's simple. It's about right now and what will make me happy right now. And like baseball, a summer fling is destined to end in September heartache.

But even knowing that there isn't going to be a happy ending, you launch yourself into it because it's fun. You get swept up in the excitement. And, for awhile, nothing else really matters. Because you can see the end before it even gets started, you can go full-bore and throw yourself into it with complete and utter abandon-no inhibitions, no expectations to live up to-with your summer love (and baseball) you can just be. Quirky side exposed, you can be as obsessive, as irresponsible, and as superstitious as you want to be.

No matter how earth-shatteringly monumental and important a summer romance can seem, though, it's really just fluff. If it wasn't fluff, then it wouldn't end the way it does. If the relationship had meaning, there'd by a knock-down-drag-'em-out fight to signal it's demise. Instead, both baseball and the summer fling just sort of peter out. One week you see each other nearly every day and the next *poof* they're gone.

With vague promises to keep in touch, and no real goodbye, you find that you've drifted apart. And all you're left with is memories. They might be memories of romantic endeavors like taking out the trash together or seeing who can stay in the walk-in freezer longest (I might have mentioned before that I had a bit of a problem with being a dare-devil when I was younger) or they might be Lester's no-hitter, Manny's home run, or that ridiculous game against Texas. But they're all that remains of summer and it's sad.

Don't get me wrong, I look forward to the post-season as much as anyone. And, if you're lucky, you get the conclusion. You get the final goodbye before everyone heads off in different directions. But post-season play is bittersweet. It's a prolongation of the inevitable: each new game could be the season's last gasp. The end of summer is nipping at your heels and post-season ball is a few last stolen moments before they shut the ice cream shop down for the winter. It's the birthday card the sweet boy sends to you even though you haven't spoken in six weeks. You're not supposed to have those moments; so, they should be both cherished and greedily hoarded.

To put it in a more adult context: a lot can happen during the course of a summer (summer loosely meaning the baseball season.) People are born. People get married. People die. But there's always baseball. It's constant background buzz forms the soundtrack of summer. It becomes a comfortable place to anchor our lives. Michael's sister's baby was born when the Sox were in Japan. My old college roommate was married when they played St. Louis. My Uncle was diagnosed with cancer when they were in Tampa in April and his funeral was when they played the White Sox at the end of August.

It's fourth of July weekend with the family on Block Island with Lester going nine shut-out innings against the Yankees. It's Sunday afternoon birthday barbecues on the beach accompanied by the dulcet tones of Joe Castiglione. It's going out to dinner on a blind date, noticing that the game is on in the bar, and covertly trying to follow it. It's watching the game with a few friends and a steady supply of cold beer at a bar. It's watching the game on a warm night with a rapidly warming beer and nearly thirty-eight thousand strangers.

Baseball does this to me every year. I'm happily following along when, suddenly, like a kick in the teeth, September is over. MLB or Father Time or some Supreme Being leans over my shoulder and announces: Ok. We're done now. Hope you had fun. C'mon, you didn't notice the chill in the air or the leaves changing? No. I was busy. I'm left with a hollow feeling and a sense of "What do I do now?" I suppose hibernation is an option.

The photos in the slide show are from AP, Getty, and Reuters. The music is Beethoven, Op. 43 'Prometheus Overture' (at least, the first four minutes of it, there's another minute that got cut off.)