The Comfort of the Game

“I've learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.” - Maya Angelou

I’ve been hard on baseball.

I’ve picked it apart, the rule changes, the branding, the empty rituals dressed up as engagement. I’ve pointed at the pitch clock, the ghost runner, the mic’d-up banter, and said, this isn’t what I signed up for. And I meant it.

But I keep watching.

Because beneath all the noise and polish, there’s still something in the game that hasn’t left me. Not completely. Not yet.

It’s 9:10 p.m. Central and the Dodgers are just getting underway out west. The country’s going quiet, the texts slow down, the work is done, the world starts to unplug. That’s when I flip on the game. No fanfare. No agenda. I just want it on.

And once it is, everything else fades.

The sound of the crowd. The booth guys chatting about pitches or sunflower seeds or some minor leaguer who’s making good. The rhythm of it. The pacing. The way the camera cuts to the pitcher adjusting his cap between every pitch. I don’t even realize how much I’ve missed that until I feel myself relax.

The comfort of the game isn’t just that it’s baseball, it’s that it’s still baseball.

It hasn’t been taken away from me, not entirely. Yeah, the league has changed. The culture has changed. And I’ve called it out because it matters. I believe in integrity. I believe in rhythm. I believe the game should mean something more than clicks and content.

But love doesn’t mean silence. Love means paying attention. Love means pointing to the parts that are fading because you don’t want to lose them.

That’s what I’ve been doing all along. And it’s why I still show up.

I’m not watching to argue about launch angle or pace of play. I’m watching because the Dodgers are on. Because the sound of a game at night still feels like a hand on my shoulder. Because in a world that’s louder and faster and more curated than ever, baseball still knows how to be there.

Even if I don’t make it to the final out, I sleep better knowing it's playing.

Some nights the Dodgers win. Some nights they don't. And some nights I don't even remember what happened. But I remember how it made me feel (Maya Angelou), grounded, present, okay.

That matters more than the box score.

So yeah, I’ve torn the game apart when I needed to. I’ve questioned where it's headed. But I haven’t walked away. Because for me, baseball isn’t just a sport I follow.

It’s the ritual I return to.
It’s the sound of home.
It’s the quiet in the noise.

That’s the comfort of the game.
And that’s why I still love it.