Dearest Baseball,

For years it has been my utmost joy to wack you with an oblong and spherical wooden object. From your release of the pitchers hand, you being your decent to me. Along the way you have many choices, shall you come angry and fast, dancing like a butterfly, or perhaps choose to frolic in the dirt for a moment? Your path is both beautiful and wicked, and my eye is quite often deceived. Especially you Master Dirt Frolicer, for your cunning ways have kept me up late on numerous nights, your seams dance every so mischievously in my dreams, which end as dreaded nightmares. For you are the reason I cannot make my most sought-after achievement...The World Series. One day I shall overcome your tricks and decit. I have learned to place the angry fast ones over the fence and into the grassy pastures. I've taken the slow and delightful ones into stadium bleachers, and even sent the ones that curve on journies far far away. But it is you, the one who wishes to follow the low path, it is you who I must learn to master next. I must stop trying to place my wooden stick on you, and let you be. Let you live your devilish life unharmed and allow you passage. For once this is done, me and my men will wave the banner proud and celebrate with ale and wenches. Godspeed my dear dirt frolicer...Godspeed.