The grass looks a little bit greener in spring. Is it the melted snow bringing up new shoots? Is it the first glance down, realizing that snow is a memory not to be revisited until the Earth is on the other side of the sun? Or is it the smell of hot dogs steaming and the sound of kids milling around slapping their closed fists in to the web of freshly oiled mitts?
Pitchers and catchers reported. The overseas gimmicks are all done and gone. The anthem is sung and the first pitch thrown out. Baseball has come, once again. From the seasoned veteran to the ****-sure rookie standing in the middle of an expansive outfield for the first time, digging in to the batter’s box, toeing the rubber atop the pitcher’s mound. The myths and legends that live in cathedrals of concrete and steel come once again to life as modern day heroes begin anew their streaks and their slumps.
Taking my seat in the outfield bleachers, assuming the edge in anticipation of yet another epic showdown between the hometown forces of good, in their iconic white, and the raiding horde from anywhere else. I sit transfixed, carried away to another time, and another place, remembering the fall of the Iron Man, recalling the fall of a modern day Coliseum, yet caught so inextricably in the moment that the world outside passes away.
No wars, no politics, no social ills, Baseball transcending it all. Explaining to a young man the double switch and the sacrifice bunt and the importance of a 1-1 pitch, I think ahead to a time when the line will be carried on. I think to the joy that I will get teaching my own son to follow the nuance of a pitchers duel, to appreciate the 15th inning deadlock, to revel in the almighty pickle.
Spring is here. The grass is green, the trees are beginning to leaf over. Gone is the chill of the North Wind, newly arrived the mid-sky sun. The Cardinals and Blue Jays return from their southern escape, and pin stripes are once again in vogue. Welcome back Spring. You bring a most welcome guest.