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By Jon Weisman
Clayton Kershaw came back from a 6 1/2-week absence and kept the Washington Nationals as quiet as a Sunday morning snow flurry.
He blanketed them. He turned Nationals Park into the house on the Night Before Christmas. He pitched in such a way that I wouldn’t have trouble believing that Kershaw could bound from chimney to chimney, delivering toys to every home on the globe, while also making compensatory adjustments for non-participating households.
There were nine hits against him. I’m trying to reconcile the nine hits against him. I may actually be having an existential crisis over the nine hits against him. I’m not trying to deny them, not trying to deny that in a game that was scoreless until the sixth inning, there was actual peril – the same way there was peril in not knowing whether Rudolph’s nose might conk out somewhere over Greenland.
There was even this. Comedy.
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Still, still, it was the way Kershaw made you feel watching him, the way from the first strike he made you feel safe and secure, that baseball was once again a gift, that the stray brushstrokes were all part of the show, that even in a busy and converging world, there can be peace.
It doesn’t stay that way. But that it circles back that way, maybe that’s enough.