“He speaks in that strange sports talk, telling me about the start of the new season and asks if I follow baseball. No. I really don’t. He assures me if I stay in town long enough I will become a baseball fan. It’s a requirement of living in St. Louis. Everyone is a Cardinal’s fan. “Loyal,” he tells me. St. Louis is a loyal town.”

“Because Cards' fans are the most knowledgeable and loyal in all of baseball, they booed almost reluctantly, polite as booing goes, what would have passes as a standing ovation in Philly.”

“You are the only judge of whether a piece of art is a piece of art! It’s the average man who is the judge. It’s not the effete academic who will determine whether a piece of art is a piece of art anymore than an academic can tell you whether a baseball player is really a great baseball player. It’s the fan in the stadium that will tell you whether he’s a great baseball player.”

“I don’t stay anywhere. I visit. I observe. I leave. I don’t ever stay.”I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do with this information. Tell him to leave? Tell him to stay? But I don’t have time to consider any other alternatives, because he scoots in closer and brings his hands to my face, and I fall back into the bookcase as he kisses me with this intensity—like he wants to be here, and if he kisses me just long enough, deeply enough, none of what he just said will actually be true.”

“I have dozens of loyal fans! Baker's dozens! …they come in thirteens.”

“People ask me what I do in winter when there's no baseball. I'll tell you what I do. I stare out the window and wait for spring.”