The hyper-individualism and narcissism that have taken deep root in America have led to a current notion that the only good prayers are spontaneous, created on the spot and issuing from the unique persona of the one praying. Conversely, there's a pervasive sentiment that to recite the prayers of others is somehow less authentic, less real, and certainly less efficacious. It only takes a moment's reflection to see that both of these views are nonsense. The fact that Jesus memorized and prayed the Psalms, using them extensively in his teaching, should adequately squelch any doubts about the validity and helpfulness of praying 'second-hand' prayers.

The effect of establishing fixed times in the day for centering attention on God is that your life starts to bend around these significant moments. A rhyme and pattern develop to your day, and the recital of meaningful prayers and psalms slowly fills an interior spiritual reservoir which carries you through the craziness of modern life with your head screwed on straight. You become, as the ancient poet says, "a tree planted by streams of water, which yields its fruit in season and whose leaf does not wither."

Smack dab in the middle of the hotel lobby is a squared-off bar area that is raised up off the floor by a couple of feet, carpeted and outfitted with tables. The room is populated with up to several hundred men—agents, scouts, front office assistants, kids looking for jobs, and of course, the members of the media. Essentially, it is a big cocktail party. Groups of guys cluster together and chat. It’s the kind of scene where you see a guy pull another guy aside and say, “Step into my office.” The rest of the men stand around nervously, as if they were limo drivers at the airport waiting to pick someone up.

It is an inherently tense and uncomfortable atmosphere. The mood isn’t dour, it’s just forced. After all, this isn’t a social gathering, this is business. The teams are in the business of signing players and making trades; the agents are in the business of selling their clients, and the media’s business is to be up in everybody’s business. As a result, everyone is checking everybody else out. This is amusing. When I first walked in, I was getting the once over too. Some guys shot me suspicious, dark looks, as if to say, “Now who the hell is this?” Others looked at me more openly, with curiosity, as if to say, “Who the hell is that?”

What's a blog-writing outsider like me doing at Major League Baseball's Winter Meetings? That was a question I couldn't adequately answer, not even after Alex Belth and I entered the lobby of the New Orleans Marriott and cut through a swarm of baseball executives, agents and writers in search of the Baseball Prospectus contingent who had encouraged us to come down. Traveling on my own dime, lacking media credentials and anonymous to all but a small handful of people in the room, I shook my head as I surveyed the spectacle. What had I gotten myself into?

The answer turned out to be four days of pure sensory overload, intensive immersion in a realm of the baseball world I had only previously imagined. I watched, talked, argued, networked, laughed, ate, drank, gambled and strolled through the human sewer of degradation that is Bourbon Street. But mostly I just listened to a wide variety of perspectives about the game and the weekend's happenings. I cemented friendships with people who had previously been only names at other nodes of this electronic wonderland. The whole experience left me so giddy I was unable to fall asleep at night no matter how exhausted my body was.

posted by Peter at 11:30 PM
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