Back home for Christmas a few months later, I whiled away my vacation days watching Ken Burns’s excellent documentary series “Baseball,” and a bit of déjà vu crept into my head when the narrative reached the 1950s, the era of the Brooklyn Dodgers and New York Giants - a time when New York was the capital of baseball. Then, a “Subway Series” to decide the World Championship was more an inevitability than a longshot. Listening to the captivating old-timers describe how the city came alive during those days reminded me of that indescribable feeling that was so prevalent in the previous months. And it reminded me of why baseball is still my favorite sport.

Despite the damaging players’ strike, despite the drug scandals and increasingly outrageous salaries, despite the flashier marketing of more in-your-face physical sports like football, and faster-paced, higher-scoring ones like basketball, baseball still maintains its position as the classic American pastime. What other sport is mentioned alongside apple pie when boiling down the essence of Americana to its most basic components? But more importantly, what exactly is the appeal of a game that can go on for over three hours with no points scored and still be a thriller, a game where hitting successfully only 40% of the time can equal superstardom?

One factor may be the unique sense of history that the game possesses. Baseball is the only American sport that has been played professionally since before the turn of the previous century. With that longevity comes an undeniable place in the American tapestry that no other sport can claim - and for the game’s greatest players, an iconic, mythical status that is unequaled. Think about it: with a few exceptions, most of the greats of football, basketball, hockey, and tennis are still with us, coaching, doing color commentary, or endorsing products. By contrast, many of baseball’s legendary figures are consigned to grainy, black and white film footage and old, yellowed photos. Many of us are old enough to have seen Jordan, McEnroe, and Bradshaw in their prime. Far fewer of us can say that about Honus Wagner, Lou Gehrig, Ty Cobb, or Christy Matthewson. Yet we hear names such as these invoked constantly when a modern player flirts with greatness. It’s that mystery, that curiosity, that lends to baseball’s mystique - the obsession with learning the past to put the present into a greater context. It’s what inspires fathers to pass down their baseball experiences to their sons. My father told me about the time he played hooky from school to see Bill Mazeroski’s famous home run in the last game of the 1960 World Series. One day, I hope to tell my son where I was when I saw Mark McGwire hit number 70.

There’s a universality to baseball, too, an alluring myth that resonates through every little league game and office softball league: that baseball is a game that can be played by anybody and everybody. Most people realize fairly early on that it’s unrealistic to aspire to play pro football unless they’re huge bruisers, a pipedream to play pro basketball unless they tower over their peers. But baseball players have never settled into a certain type. Yes, the game has its share of musclebound McGwires and matinee idol Derek Jeters; it’s also a game where two of the best pitchers in the league are roly-poly David Wells and gangly, scarecrow-like Randy Johnson. Baseball’s best-known icon, a fellow by the name of Ruth, was a pudgy, hard-drinking, cigar-smoking type, with skinny legs and a pug-like face - surely the most lasting symbol not only of the game itself, but of its everyman appeal that’s endured for well over a thousand years.