The Fall Classic finds me coming out of my self-imposed blogging exile to dust off the keys and get these arthritic fingers moving once again.

Say what you will about baseball, it is, above all else, a ritual. There's something deep in our collective cranium that craves games. And all games come back to the source. All games come back to the child -- the one we've buried, forgotten, or lost somewhere along the way.

So drink your overpriced bear. Grow your mohawk. Wave your towels or ring your bells. Buy the big screen tv. Or hang out at the local tap room. However you choose to find that child, let him (or her) out for a little while to run the bases of liberation -- freedom from our everyday worries and responsibilities. Time away from the every day.

Some folks say baseball is a slow game. Too slow. Dull. Boring. I counter with the assertion that time itself intentionally slows when we watch or play the game. Why? Because we don't want the child in us to go away. For as long as the innings last, we hold on to that memory of being young and being free. When we cheer, we let loose that little kid who never has to go home. Who can stay for one more "at bat." Who needs to break in that glove "just right."

And for those who wonder why old Klaus is so nostalgic for the game, I give you a name: John Jay Remsen. Jack to his friends.

I've had a lot of fun in my many years. Now go. Each one of you. Find something that finds the child in you. Go play.