Triumph of the Will

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Gentlemen, it is truly an honor and a privilege to be contributing to this, your esteemed endeavor in electronic publishing, and I shall attempt in a most earnest fashion to contribute what value and insight I can to its pages. My only hope is that I can measure up to the range of analytical sophistication already on display. I shall try.

Many of you may have become aware in recent days that the city in which I make my domicile, the Fair District of Columbia, has at last rejoined the ranks of urban centers supporting a professional baseball team. They are called the Nationals. For too long, our lovely hamlet has been without the favor of a local nine, so I will endeavor to banish from memory that our new heroes formerly alighted across the Northern border in a bid to escape service in our conflict with the Maoist rice farmers of Northern Vietnam.

Alas, 'tis true that we are not all without our ideological skeletons. Nonetheless, we should attempt -- Mr. William Kristol -- to keep our former Trotskyist proclivities from escaping into public view. On that score, to prevent the allegiances of our new hometown boys from becoming a matter of public confusion, I recommend that First Baseman Nicholas Johnson immediately be shorn of his unfortunate thatch of facial hair. Allusions to the former Islamofascist regime in Kabul should be kept well clear of the ballyard.

But I digress. Forgive me, reader. Though the young Nationals squad has arrived in the nick of time to rescue our nation's capitol from hardball purgatory, I would be remiss in not engaging in my ritual lament about the sad, eroded state of Our Great Game. It has been tainted by the scandal of performance-enhancing drugs and tarnished by the outrageous shenanigans that transpired between the World Champions and their A-ball inquisitors at that hellish dome in Florida. These are troubling specters all. What White Knight will ride to the game's rescue? I know not. But I do know this, dear reader: though from time to time I may peer at events through trembling fingers, I can never long defer my gaze from our lovely national pasttime.

Now, I must depart. Nancy is calling again, ghosts of ancient ardor swirl, and there is little time.


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