A friend just wrote to me that we seem to be going to hell in a handbasket.

Another friend, on the other hand, is a naturalized citizen who is a refugee from the genocide in Serbia, who cheerfully told me he is sponsoring his cousin for one of those “genius” visas, “Because Serbia is fascist and Trump likes fascists,” he explained.

Everyone reacts based on different standards.

My reaction was that yesterday, I went to a baseball game and enjoyed a world in which everything is not a personal threat and everybody gets along.

The Phillies are having a slow start. This series they’re playing the Nationals, after having been blown out the first game in the series 13-2 and then barely squeaking out a win the next game, but I didn’t care. I know the names of a lot of the people on the team, even if some of my favorites are long gone, and they all seem to get along pretty well, which is nice. Even Bryce Harper gets along okay.

I took the subway there. It was full of people in Phillies gear. The subway, the Broad Street Line, goes straight to the stadium complex, and is generally an unpleasant ride outside of rush hour because the cars are half empty except for people smoking up, but before and after Phillies games it’s a wonderful haven for people who like baseball. Everyone is in team gear.

People were carrying six-packs and plastic bags full of of snacks, and because it’s spring break this week, there were a lot of kids, too.

I have been yearning for a City Connect jersey, and I had gotten my ticket on sale, so I went to the team store and blew my month’s budget on a jersey with my last name on it, because the shortstop and I share that name. I also got a bottle of water and a box of popcorn for my lunch, and settled in to waste a couple of hours in the company of thousands of other people who were also in a good mood.

It was already a winning day as far as I was concerned.

The stands were glittering. The displays were flashing. My ADHD soul was in a state of bliss with distractions all around and nothing important happening. Organ music was noodling along, people were chattering, vendors were hawking beer and cotton candy, the Phanatic was romping in his usual exuberant and almost salacious style, and a friendly guy behind me was there with his young grandson. He and I discussed calls we didn’t understand. I explained the new challenge system to him. The grandson ignored us both.

The Phillies did okay to begin with, and then the Nationals outscored them, and I didn’t mind because I had popcorn, sunblock, and a new jersey.

I misplaced my glasses at one point, but the guy behind me told me they were on my face, and I told him “Don’t get old.” He laughed and said he left reading glasses all over the house.

I left in the 8th when we were down 3-5, because I noticed I was starting to get sleepy, and said goodbye to the guy. I said goodbye to the grandson, too, but the grandson wasn’t sure how to take that.

I stopped in the bathroom, and left my phone behind on the sink, but I noticed right away and persuaded the staff to let me back in; someone had handed it in, and I got it back from the attendant, who was kind to me and didn’t make fun of me.

And on my way out of the subway, the infielder tied up the game, and everyone coming up the stairs was excited. A little kid was showing his dad his phone and shouting, “5-5!” That was pleasant. Not necessary, but pleasant.

I caught my bus home, and part way home I checked my phone and the rookie outfielder Justin Crawford had just batted in a walk-off run. All by myself, surrounded by people who had not been at the game, including a nice lady I have seen before who takes her dignified dog with her on her lap on the bus, I threw up my fists and said, “Yes!”

The Phillies didn’t have to win for it to be a good day, though. That’s what baseball means to me.

It was perfect. I’m going again in May, but I have had the one good game I require every year, so even if it rains out or we lose, everything is all right. It’s a wonderful world sometimes, this handbasket.