There’s always a moment just before the first pitch when we all rise. It's muscle memory at this point. You stand, you remove your cap, you face the flag. Maybe it’s an a cappella version of the national anthem. Maybe it's a pre-recorded performance echoing through the concourse while people shuffle to their seats with beers and nachos. I do it. I’ve always done it. I’m used to it. That’s not what bothers me.
What’s been sticking with me more and more is what happens in the middle of the game, the moment when a stadium voice politely instructs us to rise again, this time for God Bless America.
There’s no pause for reflection. No room to opt out. No space to think.
It’s a cue, like a prompt in a play. And if you don’t follow it, you feel it, that strange, tight energy around you. It’s not reverence. It’s surveillance.
I don’t remember God Bless America being part of every game growing up. The national anthem, sure, that’s been part of the baseball experience as far back as I can remember. …
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