Peanuts and Cracker Jacks

Once every couple of weeks a nice guy I work with comes in to the office. I think he's actually supposed to be here a couple of times per week, and somehow works it out to come in like twice a month. 


Perhaps it's his scarcity or just his winning personality but when he's here, several other guys in my office flock to his cubicle like baptists to a river. On the one hand, I don't mind, I understand that his friends want to talk to him. On the other hand, it's mildly annoying. Noise pollution, you know?
My boss (who is also a nice guy) seems particularly bonded with Johnny come lately. I think they have the same tastes in music and they're on the same fantasy baseball league.
Fantasy baseball? What's that you ask? It allows the average Joe to live out one of his basic daydreams since time immemorial (or his ninth birthday): be in charge of a professional sports team. Pick a draft. Have the winningest team in town.


So, Johnny and my boss sit and talk and whisper like school girls for easily 30 to 40 minutes at Johnny's desk. Tittering away like children about their teams. Gossiping about the players' performances and their draft picks and who they'd like on their team but didn't get. And who's doing well unexpectedly and who should be doing better and oh my fucking god there are 60,000 baseball players and like 300,000 games per season so the conversation could go on for an eternity.
Their passion is astounding. And their dedication never ceases to amaze me. And I don't think I have ever sat around with my girlfriends and talked shit about some celebrity's life for as long as these guys talk shit about baseball.