by Jeff Lagasse

      There are two reasons why the end of summer seems sad and hollow.  You can probably guess the first reason: getting back into the routine of subjecting yourself to six hours of sitting in hard plastic chairs is difficult.  The second reason is one that only a handful of people can identify with.  They're the people that consider a trip to the ballpark to be a near-religious experience.  They're the people that sit on the edge of their seats at something as seemingly insignificant as a full count. They're people that, for the most part, are reluctant to admit they have an addiction.
  Hi, my name's Jeff and I'm addicted to baseball.
  That's why it's such a somber day when the boys of summer hang up their hats and shove their bats away to collect dust during the winter.  That's why I feel a little melancholy when the tarps are dragged over the fields to protect them from the snow and the rain during the off-season,

and that's why I lower my head a notch when I'm no longer able to keep track of who has the most home runs, who has the highest batting average, and what team is trying to win the pennant.  Looking at a baseball field during the late fall and early winter is like looking at a cemetery on a rainy day.  The typical overweight, beer- guzzling fans might say "There'll be a fresh start next year," (at least before they crack open a Schlitz), but all I can do is look back.
  Roll your eyes if you want to, but I'm the type of person that thinks the end of the baseball season should be accompanied by a service and a funeral hymn.  Sure, the summer presents opportunities to do exciting things,but it lags at times, and that's when the perfection of a dirt infield can provide an escape from the dog days.  It's comforting to realize that the fat beer-drinkers, infants dripping from every possible orifice and the kid down the street with scabs on his knees can all come to the ballpark and enjoy the common experience

of seeing men in tight uniforms run around like kids.  The idea of baseball being an escape back to childhood is cliche, I realize that, but it still holds true; and what better time to look back on the past than at this pivotal moment, these last few summers before we're flung headfirst into the "real world"?
  So before I'm thrust violently into adulthood, I'm taking time out to reflect on the game that has sustained me through the humid, sweaty afternoons spent fanning myself in front of the Sox game.  I'll look back at when Roger Clemens traded in his Boston uniform for a Toronto one, when teams like the Twins and Athletics were winning division championships, and-- dare I say it?-- when Wade Boggs was banging line drives down the right field line at Fenway.  For every summer of my childhood, it seems, there's a player or a game to attach it to.
  Kind of depressing when you think about it.  Maybe I need a Schlitz.