This is the thing about intimacy that baseball consistently and maybe willfully ignores: Some of us want to sit far away. We elect to sit among the scattered hoi polloi, the people who most assuredly aren't there with a client, the people who bought a cheap ticket on a whim because they wanted to see a baseball game. We're comfortable in these seats, up here with the gods, in this raucous, usually half-empty participatory democracy. In large part that's why my friends and I didn't attend any subsequent games in the Yankees series, knowing we'd again be wedged into the stadium's genteel second deck. Instead, we watched from that most intimate of locales: home.
TODAY IN SLATE
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