Colin Sheridan: Baseball forever young thanks to memorable World Series

Game 7, proved once again, it's a phrase that requires no embellishment.

AMERICA'S PASTIME: Pitcher Yoshinobu Yamamoto of the Los Angeles Dodgers celebrates with teammates after defeating the Toronto Blue Jays 5-4 in game seven. Pic: Patrick Smith/Getty Images

Somewhere between the crack of a bat and the exhale of a nation, there exists a peculiar hush. It is not silence exactly, but the sort of expectant quiet that visits confessionals and maternity wards. Baseball’s alchemy has always lived in this vacuum. And when October baseball creeps into November, it is at its most poetically profound. On Saturday night in Toronto, in Game 7 of the World Series, it reminded us why.

Baseball is a sport people love to bury. Too slow, they say. Too quaint. Too bound to the sepia-toned ghosts of cigar-chewing managers and boys named Grover. Football has conquered the headlines; basketball, the posterising glitter. Baseball, we are told, belongs to Norman Rockwell paintings and fathers with rolled-up shirt sleeves tossing pitches to their kids at sunset - not the roaring algorithms of modern sport.