World Series

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It seems like every year there is less excitement over the World Series. Anyone else agree? Or is it just because we love soccer?

[Unregistered]

It seems like every year there is less excitement over the World Series. Anyone else agree? Or is it just because we love soccer?

Would rather watch a 0-0 soccer game than a Game 7 World Series game, even with the Red Sox playing. Never could figure out the big deal about baseball around these parts.

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Would rather watch a 0-0 soccer game than a Game 7 World Series game, even with the Red Sox playing. Never could figure out the big deal about baseball around these parts.

Sigmund Freud asked the same question and did a study in 1950. He found most boys in America played baseball in their youth, and found many direct correlations with the child's experience with baseball, and how their lives unfolded as an adult. Surprisingly, most high level achievers were terrible at youth baseball,, and tried to overcome their inferiority as a child ballplayer, by having a deep desire to overcome the failure stigma. many of the youth stars, went on to a life of bitter disappointment, and held various jobs pumping gas and selling cigarettes, as they could not deal with adversity and failure later in life. Regardless, freud foud all men relived their childhood pastime , and enjoyed watching the professional games in great numbers..

[Unregistered]

It seems like every year there is less excitement over the World Series. Anyone else agree? Or is it just because we love soccer?

I don't think it's soccer vs baseball. I think New England just got so jazzed up about the Bruins winning the Stanley Cup that the fan base around here got burned out. This year, when the Red Sox tanked, no one cared. When the Yankees tanked, they still didn't care. Now a couple of teams no one around here cares about are playing in the world series. What scares me is the thought that maybe we are becoming the cubs, and the Cubs are becoming us.

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Sigmund Freud asked the same question and did a study in 1950. He found most boys in America played baseball in their youth, and found many direct correlations with the child's experience with baseball, and how their lives unfolded as an adult. Surprisingly, most high level achievers were terrible at youth baseball,, and tried to overcome their inferiority as a child ballplayer, by having a deep desire to overcome the failure stigma. many of the youth stars, went on to a life of bitter disappointment, and held various jobs pumping gas and selling cigarettes, as they could not deal with adversity and failure later in life. Regardless, freud foud all men relived their childhood pastime , and enjoyed watching the professional games in great numbers..

Good one! Freud died in 1939, age 83 - don't know what he thought about baseball

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Good one! Freud died in 1939, age 83 - don't know what he thought about baseball

Lol, that was a rather well-crafted little canard.

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Lol, that was a rather well-crafted little canard.

Perhaps, but old SF has basball cards and shirts dedicated to his visage, not to mention this catchy poem.

Sigmund Freud and Babe Ruth in Heaven

Sigmund sits in a cool dugout,
theorizing The Babe,
who daily trots out in Heaven’s perpetual
Spring Training and wrists
pitches over marble walls. The Babe
plays in his underwear, looks like a white
radish atop toothpicks.

Dr. Freud
is addicted to a revulsion he feels for this
Orality of a man, who even in Heaven
devours raw steak, rashers of bacon, barrels
of ale, potatoes, fudge, cigars, brandy.
Ruth’s lips are immense. His voice burbles
up like raw crude. The doctor cannot keep

himself from watching George Herman’s buttocks
flinch when he turns on a pitch. Wearing
a Brooklyn Dodger’s cap, Freud scribbles
notes toward a paradigm of Baseball As Dream.
At home plate, Bambino belches, breaks wind.
The doctor is discontent. Apparently, there’s
no treatment for this Promethean-American adolescent-
voracious as a bear, incorrigible as a cat.

Babe calls Sigmund “Doc, ” of course.
When they play catch, Babe bends curves
and floats knucklers-junk for bespectacled Doc,
who squints and shies when ball slaps mitt. The ball
falls out as often as not. Sometimes, though,

a principled grin grows on Freud’s grizzled face.
For the doctor is day-dreaming he’s a boy
in Brooklyn-that Herr Ruth, Der Yank, is his step-father.
When the ball does slip snugly into dark webbing,
no sting, Freud feels the power of Catch as Ritual.
Hey, there you go, Doc! growls His Babeness—
and spits brownly, O prodigiously onto Heaven’s green.