To say “all of it” seems like a copout, even if it’s pretty much true. Baseball rules so f@#$ing hard. Presumably you all realize that by now. It’s weird to think of how all the figures and angles and distances that might seem arbitrary to an outsider combine so perfectly to render such an exquisite, exhilarating competition — four balls, three strikes, three outs, four bases, nine fielders, nine innings, 90-foot basepath — and how the odd little intricacies in the rulebook seem to amplify the awesomeness: No strikeouts on foul balls, no free substitutions, no ties.

But of course, since those things are all fundamental to baseball and I love baseball, there’s a lot of confirmation bias in play. I could argue that they’re all part of the reason baseball is more popular today than rounders and stoolball, but maybe if someone decided a long time ago that the basepaths should be 85 feet and offenses should only have two outs per inning, I’d be praising those particulars now.

So if I’m going to narrow it down to something more specific about baseball that makes it awesome — if not so specific as, say, a 450-foot Lucas Duda moonshot — allow me to pick two: There’s no clock and it is dominated by randomness.

I really enjoy watching a lot of sports, and I’ve found NFL football and college basketball great for passing the time between the World Series and Opening Day. But in the waning moments of certain sad Jets and Hoyas games, I find myself eying the clock and trying to figure if there’s any chance my team could come back in the allotted timeframe. Often there isn’t. Often, before the game is over, all hope is already lost.

That’s never the case in baseball. In baseball, well, it’s like the fella says. The Mets might be down 10 runs with two outs in the bottom of the ninth, but I’m probably going to keep watching. I’m just that pathetic, and baseball’s just that cool. And if by some bizarre chance the Mets do overcome that deficit, it’s going to be the type of baseball game that leaves me weeping in my easy chair wondering why I only cry over baseball games.

As for the randomness thing: it’s fun. Mostly the game rewards talent, but sometimes it rewards plain old-fashioned luck. A masterful pitcher working with his full arsenal gets the groundball he wants, but it squeaks past the second baseman and puts the tying run on base. The star slugger ropes a bases-loaded line drive right into the center fielder’s glove. It’s not fair, except that everyone who plays is subject to the same whims. We can just hope that game’s fortunes happen to favor our team.

In conjunction, they are redeeming. Baseball as a metaphor for life is cliched, but I like — and as I’ve said before — baseball as a microcosm of life. And I want to believe that until it’s over for us we always have a shot at glory in whatever we endeavor, and I know damn well that nearly everything that happens in the world is influenced by a hell of a lot of randomness.

Man… who’s psyched for baseball?

Baseball!