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Excerpts from:
"Baseball According to Lao-Tzu" by John W. Hart III, illustrations by Adam R. Factor
You can talk baseball, but not the Eternal Baseball.
Hall of Famers can be named, but not the superstar.
 As the beginnings of time, it is nameless.
As the creator of all things, it is named.
So, what is hidden, we inspect its inner essence.
And what is real, we look at its appearance.
The real, the eternal and the nameless, all flow
From the same source, but take different paths.
All is Poetry.
Baseball is Poetry.
 When the world has the Tao,
Outfielders race across a sea of green.
When the world is without,
Outfielders jake it on unimportant plays.
There is nothing worse than not knowing when to stop.
Only those who know when to retire
Will always have enough.
 The Tao of Baseball is like an empty dish
That can never be filled up.
It feeds all and is endless.
It cleans pine tar off suspected bats.
It unifies all clubhouse squabbles.
It unites the fans.
It brings absolute harmony during the Seventh Inning Stretch.
Baseball is hidden and timeless.
Baseball is the Universe.
Baseball is a chocolate smile on a child's face.
Baseball is a businessman scouring the box scores during lunch break.
It is the father and mother of all things.
 Pitchers who know batters are clever;
Pitchers who know themselves have insight.
Those who complain show force.
Those who sit are truly strong.
When you know you have enough
You become rich.
It is those who play for the game
And not for the money
Are the ones who are truly rich.
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