Finally, we thought: Sports.

After months of living in a state of paralytic dread, we could once again find distraction in a jump shot, a slap shot, a moon shot. We could set aside our fears and anxieties — our grief — for matters no more urgent than a man on second with two out and the count three-and-two.

Of course, the pandemic would keep our exuberant fandom in check. We would still not be able to sit cheek-by-jowl in a ballpark, spraying words, sauerkraut and who knows what else with every pitch. Or boo — in person! — the Houston Astros for the cheating that forever taints their 2017 championship. Or have the distinct honor of paying $11 for a beer at Citi Field.

But at least there would be sports from a safe distance. We could grab a cold one, lean back and lose ourselves in a televised game of ultimate and wonderful inconsequence.

If only we had the capacity of certain leaders for magical thinking.

Such tricks of the mind would allow us to take in the dystopian comedy of it all — the prerecorded crowd noises and the cardboard and video stand-ins for fans — without thinking too hard about the health implications for the athletes; without being nagged by thoughts of: Is this all right?

Source: New York Times

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