Spring has officially arrived. I know this not because of the flowers blooming, or the birds returning, or the fact that my neighbor is once again mowing his lawn at 7 a.m. on a Saturday (hi, Doug). No, I know it’s spring because baseball is back.
This is exciting news if you are a baseball fan, which I am, in the same way that I am a fan of dental work — I keep showing up, I keep hoping it won’t hurt, and I am almost always wrong.
For those of you who don’t follow baseball, here is a quick summary of how the sport works: men stand in a field for approximately four hours while one guy tries to hit a ball and usually doesn’t. That’s it. That’s baseball. And yet somehow, I will watch 140 of these games this season, because I have what mental health professionals would describe as “a problem.” The truly amazing thing about Opening Day is the optimism.
Every single fan base, on this one glorious day, believes their team is going to the World Series. Cubs fans believe it. Mets fans believe it. (Mets fans have been believing it since 1986, which is both admirable and clinically concerning.) For one brief, shining moment, nobody has been mathematically eliminated from anything. This is what baseball gives us that no other sport can — the irrational, stubborn, beautiful belief that this year will be different. That the bullpen will hold. That the shortstop’s knee is fine. That the new guy they got from Triple-A is, quote, “really turning heads in camp.”
He is not going to turn heads in camp. He is going to be designated for assignment by June.
But today, none of that matters. Today the grass is green, the chalk lines are fresh, and anything is possible.
Play ball.