On a recent July night, I arrived at Yankee Stadium early. I strolled around the press box and the cafeteria and watched the Yankees take batting practice in the sultry hours before their game against the Chicago Cubs. A Major League BP session inspires eternal hope: Josh Donaldson, hitting a putrid .140 entering that game, thwacked home runs far over the center-field wall, and Anthony Rizzo, mired in a monthslong slump, repeatedly slashed line drives to left.
Then the clock struck 7:05, the game began, and reality set in.
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