Is There Baseball in Heaven?

First we’ll use Spahn, Then we’ll use Sain, Then an off day, Followed by rain. Back will come Spahn, Followed by Sain and followed, we hope, By two days of rain.

That was the Braves’ pitching strategy back in 1948, the year I was born. It was a poetic plan built on two arms and meteorological optimism. It didn’t quite deliver a World Series win, but it gave us one of baseball’s most enduring mantras: trust your aces, pray for rain, and hope the schedule cooperates.

Fast forward to today’s playoffs, and the prayers haven’t stopped — they still go skyward. Every time a slugger hits a home run, he points to the Heavens like he’s communicating with the great batting coach in the sky. The gesture is so common it’s practically part of the batting stance.

And yet…

If God is the Creator of the Universe — galaxies, black holes, cosmic radiation, and the occasional rogue asteroid — is He really tuning in for Game 3 of the ALDS?

The idea that God has a “chosen team” is about as plausible as the Earth being flat. And yet, every October, we get a parade of skyward glances, post-game interviews thanking Jesus for the walk-off double, and fans convinced that their prayers tipped the ump’s call.

So, this playoff season, point to the sky if you must — just know that you may be interrupting a divine Zoom call between God and the Andromeda High Council, where they might be experiencing a severe plumbing problem.

If you’re wondering whether God’s rooting for your team, just check the scoreboard. If you’ve got two starters like Spahn and Sain, and it says “Rain Delay,” that could be your answer.

Peace & Love, and all of the above,

Earl

Myths

Educated people don’t believe in unicorns. Or mermaids. Or Atlantis, Bigfoot, or the Fountain of Youth. These are dismissed as charming myths—cultural artifacts with no empirical backing. And rightly so. We’ve combed the forests, dredged the lakes, and carbon-dated the ruins. No horned horses. No fish-women. No golden cities.

But God? That’s different.

Despite the same lack of physical evidence, belief in God is not only accepted—it’s revered. Taught in schools, sworn on in courtrooms, and invoked in campaign speeches. The same minds that scoff at fairy tales will defend divine presence with philosophical rigor and moral urgency.

This isn’t a jab at faith—it’s a spotlight on the intellectual gymnastics required to hold both positions. The educated skeptic who demands peer-reviewed proof for mythical beasts will often grant God a pass. “It’s about faith,” they say. “Transcendence. Meaning.”

But why does God get the exemption? Why not the unicorn, who at least has the decency to sparkle?

Maybe it’s not about evidence at all. Maybe it’s about utility. God offers moral scaffolding, community, and cosmic comfort. Unicorns offer glitter and horn-based combat. One gets a cathedral; the other gets a Lisa Frank folder.

So, we believe what serves us. Not what’s proven. And maybe that’s the real myth: that educated people believe only what’s true.

This isn’t a call to abandon belief. It’s a call to examine it. To ask why some unproven ideas are cherished while others are ridiculed. To recognize that even the most rational minds are shaped by culture, emotion, and need.

And if we’re going to believe in things unseen, maybe we should give the unicorn a second chance. At least she never started a war.

Peace & Love, and all of the above,

Earl

Happy Thanksgiving to All, even “Uncle Bob”

Three weeks ago, the country was divided into those who would be voting for Donald Trump and those who would be voting for Kamala Harris.  With the election now over, those divisions no longer exist. Now, we are all Americans who will be living through another Donald Trump Presidency.  We’re all in the same boat now, except that half of us are optimistic about the next four years, and half of us are dreading them.

I am a never Trumper, but I am not too worried about what Donald Trump is going to do simply because I am old, real old.  I am 76. My aging body might not even last until the end of his Presidency.  For that matter, Trump is older than me, so his aging body might not last that long, either.  He already looks like he’s melting.  So, like my Mom always said, “Never trouble trouble, ‘til trouble troubles you, for trouble, like a bubble, that you’re troubling about, may only be a cipher with the rim rubbed out.”

Many of my friends are in the other camp.  They drank the Kool-Aid DJT was dispensing and are expecting him to “Make America Great Again.”  It would be nice if four years from now, I could say, “Wow, I’m shocked, but you were right.  The United States is great again.”  However, I feel that, instead, I will be saying, “I warned you assholes that this was going to happen.”  Only time will tell what I’ll be saying in four years.  So, let’s focus on the present. 

Tomorrow, families and friends will be gathered around the Thanksgiving table, gorging on food before sitting down to watch football while their waistbands are pressing cruelly against their stomachs.  Perhaps, there will be some political discussion, but I hope that everyone will remain calm, try to keep things civil, and remember that we all have much for which to be thankful. If you have trouble calming down, just remember the words of a wise old soothsayer, “This too shall pass.”

Happy Thanksgiving to all, even “Uncle Bob.”

Peace & Love, and all of the above.

Earl