This morning in Union Station I saw one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen.

There was a man in his mid forties, bald on top, blue dress shirt, slacks, and tie, briefcase slung over one shoulder—your typical DC professional on his way to some anonymous bureaucratic and probably government office. In his hand was a cup of expensive coffee from one of the local chains. He wasn’t rushing for the escalator like all the other commuters, though. He was crouching down, the way you crouch to tie a shoe or talk to a kid—only he was talking to the homeless man who sits at the head of that escalator every morning. (I’m not sure, but I think he’s blind.) He—the homeless man—was for once strangely quiet, head tilted toward the office worker, and obviously hanging on his every word. As I passed by the two of them, myself rushing for the escalator (my train had come in late), I heard just one snippet of the office worker’s story.

“… so then the Cardinals and the Rays …”

God bless MLB.