Spring has long been revered as a magical time of year. Like the annual coming of the groundhog in Punxsutawney, Pennsylvania, I too emerge from winter hoping to see the promises of spring. Leaves gain back a vibrant green color, animals wake from months of hibernation and the last patches of snow across the country yield to grass saplings.
Sometimes, something amazing starts to happen on that grass.
Sometimes, people play baseball on it.
There’s something about the smell of fresh cut grass, the crispness of the fresh white chalk lines and the echoes of stadium vendors that just puts me right at home. It eases my stress and I can pretend that nothing else besides the pitcher and batter matters.
For three hours at the ballpark, I am at peace. Even at games that aren’t professional, the sport doesn’t change. It’s still a magical thing. I walked into Phoenix Municipal Stadium last Friday just looking to scratch the baseball itch. Instead, Ryan Hingst gave me the first no-hitter I’ve ever seen in person. I’ll never forget that game.
Baseball is my favorite sport, but it’s much more than that. It’s a part of who I am, it’s intricately and extensively woven into my identity both as a person and as an American.
I remember like it was yesterday watching the New York Mets and Philadelphia Phillies on TV, on an otherwise unremarkable May night in 2011. I remember being confused about a random outbreak of “U-S-A, U-S-A” coming from the crowd. I remember that night now as the night we learned Osama Bin Laden had been killed by Special Forces in Pakistan.
Looking back on it, I can’t pick a more American way to hear that news. My kids will someday ask me about 9/11, what it was like being ten years old and watching the Twin Towers fall in New York, in what would become one of the first major memories of my childhood. They’re going to ask me what it was like to grow up during the War on Terror, a conflict that raged for half of my life.
I’m going to make sure to tell them about how baseball healed the nation, about how ten days after the most horrific attack in the country’s history, people could finally switch off CNN for a couple hours and plug into a baseball game. My kids will one day hear about how baseball was there for me at the beginning of America’s “relationship” with Osama Bin Laden, and how it was there at the end as well.
A simple game of balls and strikes held the country together through the waning months of 2001. We were stitched back together, like two white patches of leather held together by red yarn.
Every year around this time, I meet with a close group of my friends in someone’s house or some deserted bar, and we hold a special ritual. A group of grown men, the core of which have known each other since our high school days ten years ago, free up hours out of busy schedules sometime in late March. Every year, it’s a marathon of screaming and arguing. Shouts of “Collusion!” or “Cheater!” laced with a dictionary-esque range of expletives flow over empty beer cans and pages of scribbled baseball notes.
It’s our fantasy baseball draft, and I wouldn’t trade it for the world. The league itself is just one more application of glue that bonds me to my friends. It’s become a part of our daily lives, and it makes baseball a year-long phenomenon. It’s kept friends in touch after moves took them across state lines.
Now a new season begins Sunday night, and we start this fantastic journey once again. One more year of drama and heartbreak, of heroic performances and the euphoria of victory. Finally, my therapy is back in session. Finally, I can poke my head out of my groundhog hole and see the spring.
Finally baseball is back, and there’s nothing like baseball.
Related links:
Fantasy baseball sleepers to grab
How to fix the MLB: Put the designated hitter in the National League, kill the win
Reach the columnist at cjwood3@asu.edu or follow @chriswood_311 on Twitter.
Editor’s note: The opinions presented in this column are the author’s and do not imply any endorsement from The State Press or its editors.
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