Pitchfork

When David Karsten Daniels sings about collecting dandelions in his ball hat, I think of little leagues. I still remember playing baseball when I was eight, especially that night I stood staring at my glove. It didn’t blink. I remember the first baseman shrieking by, sprinting into my territory and screaming something about waking up. I turned to see him fling the ball to the waiting second baseman, then trot past me with his disdain dripping like summer sweat. Some second grader had turned a triple off of a piddly blooper, and I knew my brother was right: I was only going to get close to Canseco and McGwire in my dreams.

Built over a perfect color-show and guitar-and-drum bounce, "American Pastime's" image gets me. Not everyone was a right-field klutz. Still, when he belts “I’m not cut out for the major leagues,” the metaphor becomes a long-distance shot: he needs commiseration for his imperfect game. Misery loves company, even if it comes with minor-league ambitions.