Do you count?

My neighborhood is such a quiet place that the radiance from the moon, reflecting off the carports in the dry Texas evenings might be the loudest stimuli around. Maybe the intermittent trains rustling down the tracks a mile away are a close second.

Minimal artificial lighting means that the stars and the moon illuminate he walkway to my mailbox as much as porch lights beside each apartment.

This is the path I take every evening when I return from work, checking a mailbox that is almost always empty. So imagine my surprise when I thick envelope from the U.S. Department of Commerce arrived addressed to me.

In bold, black, block letters I was told my response to the American Communities Survey was required by law. This 28-page booklet provides more timely data about communities, municipalities, cities and even rural America more frequently than the decennial census. Apparently, my address — not specifically me, as they reassured a handful of times — was simply because I represent a crosssection of my community.

I don’t know who rented my apartment before July, but I can only presume that the government was more interested in knowing about them then a Floridian becoming a reluctant Texan.

There I was spending a cool, Sunday evening telling the government about myself, my residence, my education, my career — and the period this year where I didn’t have a job. This information, sans my name supposedly, will be used by the public and private sector to make decisions about developing my community, and what facilities and necessities an isolated man in South Texas might need in the coming months and years.

The number of average Americans who log onto www.census.gov for information about the percentage of people in their community who speak German as a second language is minimal. Then again, how many people pull up the American Communities Survey on their smartphone to find out just how few minorities live in New Hampshire and Vermont while attending a family wedding on a scenic summer afternoon?

If nothing else, I now know why so many people quizzically stare at me as I amble through town in my fire-engine red “Floridamobile.” Less than eight percent of the population here is black, and just 17. 6 percent of the populace has a college degree. Throw in the fact that I am 26, and you have a perfect concoction for piquing curiosity in a small community.

Is it picking nits to call winners “World Champions”?

When something does not make sense to me, I usually make a funny face and ask a question: sometimes to the closest person near, or to no one in particular.

Otis Nixon ending the 1992 World Series with a bunt was one of those instances. Three weeks away from my eighth birthday, I asked my dad why he would bunt since the probability of him reaching base was very low.

The Braves were the closest thing to a major league baseball team in Southwest Florida at the time, so by almost obligation I rooted for them. (It didn’t hurt that the headmaster at my school — Edwin Gleason, a genial gentleman with an English accent — was an ardent Braves fan, who had a child-like smile on his face when molasses-slow Sid Bream beat Barry Bonds’ throw from left field earlier that month for the Braves to even make the Series.)

As Toronto danced in the infield of Fulton-County Stadium I sat there in my room as disgusted as a seven-year old who never played organized baseball could be.

Some time during one of my periods of stewing and snarling at no one in particular, my mother must have mentioned the fact that Toronto were not the “World Champions” as many broadcasters and newspapers reported.

With the Texas Rangers or the St. Louis Cardinals two wins away from baseball immortality, I cannot help but recall those consecutive Octobers where the team I wanted to win didn’t, and I sought for every excuse or plausible explanation for why it didn’t happen.

But back in 1992, I thought maybe there was some way Atlanta had won the series. Instead, her point was that it was impossible to designate the champion of a league featuring only American and Canadian teams “World Champions.” (Just the look on my headmaster’s face in the opening weeks of November was enough to convince me that the Braves indeed did lose for a second straight fall.)

Every morning the next year, I would borrow the Sports page of the Sarasota-Herald Tribune in the hope that someone had knocked Toronto out of first place. When Chicago faced Toronto in the ALCS that fall, I of course rooted for the White Sox, not solely because I despised Toronto, but in part because I went to a few White Sox spring training games earlier that year.

When Toronto won the World Series again, we were in Denver for a family trip. I missed Joe Carter’s Series-ending home run because after driving from Florida to Colorado with three smart-alecks my parents wanted to grab food at a decent restaurant.

Again the topic of World Champions came up.

On that cool Saturday night I was more annoyed that I missed such a dramatic baseball game, but as we walked down the street toward our hotel I again asked how the Blue Jays could be World Champions. For all we knew there might be a team somewhere else in the world better than them. At least that was my hope because I really, really didn’t like Toronto.

I was already aware that the 1904 “World’s Series” was called off because John McGraw thought his Giants were the best team in the world, so there was no point in playing the Boston Americans because it was a formality. But then, as is the case now, when something does not make sense I continue to ask questions until an answer satisfies my curiosity.

My dad said that was the way things have always been. He didn’t know why it was called the World Series. My mom said they should come up with another name. Neither answer was good enough, so I kept pressing for a sufficient answer.

The answer I sought never came, at least that October. Though the Braves eventually won the World Series two years later, so much had changed. My parents had more pressing concerns than the silly questions of a 10-year old with a smart mouth, I no longer attended the school where Mr. Gleason was the headmaster and most depressing of all, I was committed the perpetually hot-and-cold Florida Marlins.

The Braves mini-dynasty was proof that part of baseball’s mystery is not its timelessness, but the fact games always leaves us with unanswered questions.