Dear Daily Princetonian

Editor's Note: This is the second in a series of postcards that Daily Princetonian sports staff writers wrote about their experiences in the wide world of sports this summer. Keep reading throughout the next few weeks for more dispatches from across the country and around the world.

WASHINGTON, D.C. — If baseball is truly the nation's pastime, it only seems appropriate that the game would thrive in the nation's capitol.

But from 1972 to 2004 — 33 long, humid summers — Washington hosted as many Major League Baseball games as Winnipeg. And before that, when baseball was played in the district, it was played ineptly; two incarnations of the woebegone Washington Senators combined for one World Series victory in 71 years, earning the motto "first in war, first in peace, last in the American League."

Still, nothing breeds optimism like baseball, so when the franchise formerly known as the Expos landed in Washington this spring, Nationals Fever swept the town. Senators and interns, Democrats and Republicans — everyone — hopped on the blue line and headed to RFK Stadium.

From my seven dollar vantage point high up in Section 536, the stadium was charmless, the hotdogs were tasteless and the beers were overpriced — but I didn't mind.

All that mattered was that the Nats kept finding ways to win ballgames. Five times I took myself out to the old ballpark and root, root, rooted for the home team, and never once was it a shame. As June turned into July, the collection of raggedy (yet plucky) role players — guided by a cranky (yet wise) septuagenarian manager — somehow sat firmly in first place in the NL East. Baseball was back, and there was joy in Washington.

We all knew that it couldn't last, of course, and after the All-Star break, the Braves claimed their rightful place at the top of the standings. A city's worth of children suddenly learned what it feels like to be a fan.

Meanwhile, a city's worth of overgrown children tried to recapture their youth. The influx of overworked and underpaid college interns allows D.C. to boast what must be the highest per capita rate of office softball teams in the world. So the highlight of my work week invariably came on Thursday evenings when I patrolled centerfield and batted cleanup for the Muckrakers of the Center for Public Integrity.

At first, we Mucks weren't too mighty. We had sweet t-shirts, a well-stocked cooler and not much else. We lost our first six games — some by roughly 25 runs.

At times, I struggled with the idea of friendly play. In the middle of one shellacking, I nearly started a brawl with a shortstop who claimed to have gotten the tag down before I slid into second base. (I assure you, he didn't.) It's possible I grabbed the flimsy base, jumped up and started waving it in my opponent's face.

But perhaps my entirely uncalled-for intensity inspired my teammates. Ironically, as the Nats began falling apart, we Mucks began gelling. We skipped out on work early to warm up our arms and take batting practice. We stopped dropping flyballs and started smacking pitches into the tree line in deep leftfield. And we started winning, taking back-to-back thrillers before a heartbreaking one-run loss ended the season.

Walking off our little field by the duck pond that last night, I was sad to be going out a loser. But if my summer of baseball had taught me anything, it was that it's better to have struck out than to never have swung at all.