Diamond Sutras and Sandlots: Baseball, God, and the Geometry of the Soul

By Curtis Pelletier

Every time I walk into a ballpark, something happens. Doesn’t matter where. Whether it’s some cracked, dusty backfield where the bleachers are more rust than metal, or a massive stadium under the night lights—it’s always the same. The second I step past those gates, poof, the weight of the world falls off my shoulders. The stress, the bills, the toxic little arguments, my addiction, that thick, suffocating ego, the looming deadlines... it all just evaporates, like fog lifting off a morning field.

And I've asked myself: What the hell is that?
What’s in these chalk lines and rusted fences that can make me feel like that? What kind of geometry exists here that realigns my very soul? Because I’ve been to a lot of places—gyms, bars, therapists’ offices, churches—and nothing, nothing, compares to the peace that washes over me in a ballpark. Not a damn thing.

The Sacred Geometry of Baseball

Look at the field. Really look at it.
This shit isn’t by accident. This isn’t just grass and dirt. This is a blueprint. It’s sacred geometry dressed in turf and chalk. This is architecture designed with purpose, with intention. It’s not just a field—it’s a temple.

You’ve got circles inside squares. Lines that shoot out like rays from a cosmic sun. You’ve got angles—90 degrees of hard precision mixed with artistic flow. The diamond itself isn’t just a shape—it’s a symbol. You start at home, you leave, you round the bases, and if you’re lucky, you come back. You return home.

Isn’t that the human journey? Isn’t that the shit we’re all doing—rounding the bases, hoping to come back to where we started, just a little wiser, a little more intact?

And the pitcher’s mound—it’s raised. Elevated. The only part of the field that rises above the rest. It’s like a pulpit. A monk’s platform. The pitcher doesn’t preach with words. No, he preaches with risk. With courage. With every choice. Every ball. Every strike. Every consequence. That's a sermon if I’ve ever heard one.

Before the Big Leagues, There Were Sandlots

Before all the scouting reports, the bus rides, and the paycheck for playing a game—I was just a kid with a busted glove and a soul full of fire. My glove looked like it had survived an apocalypse. My room was filled with posters of Bo Jackson, Ken Griffey Jr. I didn’t have icons like Buddha or Christ—I had ballplayers. I didn’t light candles—I studied Topps cards by flashlight.

We didn’t have fancy showcases, high-tech data, or coaches with clipboards. We had sticks, a ball, and the kind of time that makes you feel like anything is possible. We played until the sun dipped behind the trees.

And when we weren’t playing? We were watching. Grainy TV with a rabbit-ear antenna. A rec game in the local park. Peeking through fences at older kids cracking missiles. We didn’t have social media—hell, we barely had cable. We had patience and imagination.

I taped over god know’s what to watch Chipper Jones go deep in the playoffs. That was my Netflix.. VHS after VHS of the postseason.

We didn’t know it back then, but we were disciples.

The Rituals We Keep

I don’t claim to be religious in the traditional sense. I didn’t grow up quoting scripture. I quoted batting averages. I memorized lineups like hymns. I even made the sign of the cross before a 2-2 pitch. Not out of obligation, but out of belief. Because baseball—baseball is religion. It’s ritual. It’s devotion.

The way a hitter steps into the box—tap the glove, adjust the wrist strap, take a deep breath. Tell me that isn’t prayer. Tapping the plate before you get to work? That’s a humble acknowledgment. A presence. A mindfulness that transcends the game itself.

You don’t mess with the streak. You don’t step on the line. You respect the game like it’s a sacred text, like it’s scripture. You know the unwritten rules and the name of every stadium. You show up even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard. Just like life. Just like any spiritual journey that demands something real of you.

Zen and the Art of Failing Gracefully

Baseball is designed for failure. And Zen Buddhism? Zen tells you that life is suffering. Be present through it. Baseball doesn’t sugarcoat it. You’re gonna fail, my friend. You can fail 7 out of 10 times and make the Hall of Fame. And that? That’s Zen. That’s life.

The best hitters? They surrender. They trust the swing. They let go of control. They don’t force the outcome. Sound familiar?

You can’t will the ball to drop. You can’t think your way out a slump by forcing it. You relax. You breathe. You trust. You wait. That’s faith. That’s the dance between mastery and surrender.

The Brotherhood

The locker room, the real church of baseball. The road trips. The cramped bus rides. Four guys in a hotel room, sleeping on the floor with hoodies as pillows. The card games, the pranks, the farts, the laughter.

You didn’t play for the fans—you played for the guy next to you. That’s the gospel right there. The communion. The shared suffering. The unspoken bond that only makes sense to those who’ve struck out, been cut, or pulled off the impossible. The connection you make with teammates, and the way you hold onto it, even after the game is over.

And when you lose someone from that bond? It hits like a death. Because it’s more than a teammate. It’s a brother. A sacred bond.

Why This Shit Still Matters

I don’t know what I believe about God. I’ve seen too much pain and too many miracles to dismiss something higher, but also too much chaos to buy into certainty. But I do know this—I believe in baseball.

I believe in how it mirrors life itself: the rhythms, the unknowns, the grind, and, yes, the failures. Baseball gives me something to believe in when everything else feels uncertain. It offers ritual, purpose, clarity. It asks me to be present, to let go, to forgive myself, and to try again.

And isn’t that, in the end, what faith is?
The silent moments between pitches. The trust in a 3-2 count. The grace of a slow roller that defies expectations. Baseball may not save me, but it offers a glimpse of something divine—something that reminds me to show up, even when the world outside is loud and unforgiving.

Final Inning Thoughts

Baseball is church. The field is the altar. The game is the sermon. You stand in silence. You kneel between innings. You mourn your team’s losses. You believe in miracles, curses, and streaks. You pray—maybe not out loud, but deep inside.

You show up.
You fail.
You adjust.
You swing again.

Maybe that’s the whole point, right?
Faith isn’t about certainty. It’s about showing up, again and again, and trusting the process. That’s baseball. And in a world that’s lost its way, that’s a religion I can follow.

So, give me the sacred diamond. Give me dirt under my cleats and sun on my face. Give me a glove that fits like an old friend and a game that doesn’t promise salvation, but damn sure lets you believe in it anyway.

Because when the world’s noise gets too much to handle, I know exactly where to find peace. It’s on the diamond.