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The baseball season in the States runs from the very start of April to the very end of October. Its beginning coincides with the first balmy days of spring; its end with the sharp dip in temperatures that signals the arrival of autumn proper and the earliest hint of winter.

As readers of this blog may know, I have become a huge baseball fan over the past ten years, with the MLB post season now, more or less, my favourite sporting event. Its conclusion is bittersweet: the World Series not only the culmination of a season but also the signal of an end – not just of baseball, but of summer. And, maybe, of more than that.

The melancholy that accompanies this passing of time is amplified by shorter days and longer nights; of falling temperatures and the prospect of three or four months spent trudging to work in the cold and rain.

This sense of an ending is not unique to baseball; I feel the same way when the English cricket season draws stumps a few weeks earlier. But I don’t get the same sense of loss when the football season draws to a close. It’s a summer thing.

Anyway, the reason for this post is this: an essay written by the late Bart Giamatti, read by the man himself. No, I had no idea who he was, either. I do now.

I heard this for the first time yesterday. Even if you have no interest in baseball, cricket or sport, take ten minutes out of your day and give it a listen.