And I don’t know why.
Every year it’s the same thing. Christmas ends, and January brings a cold post-holiday void that feels… well… cold.
But never fear! Right around the corner is the hope of Spring! Not just warmer weather, or Valentines, or Easter.
It’s baseball season.
In early February, the Super-Hyperbole-Bowl gives way to the green grass of Spring training. The camps in Arizona and Florida warm the heart, and promise of better tomorrows. Sure, there are 30 teams. Sure, your odds of winning it all are slim at best. But there’s something about that clean slate, and the sweet triumphant memories of years gone by that pulls me in year after year.
The sports talk guys don’t make it any easier. They tell of winter trades promising hope for the upcoming season. They report of improvements in your team that whisper, “This could be the year”, followed by the ever-present disclaimer, “if everyone stays healthy”.
Because lets face it. It’s an eternal season. Anything could happen. Baseball basically starts now (officially March 28) and goes until October 30, (We assume the World Series will go the full seven games, and believe me. The World Series, if there’s any justice, SHOULD go the full seven games.)
There’s so much that can develop in the next nine months. And you’re never technically out of the pennant race until you are mathematically out of the pennant race. For many teams that happens sometime in September. But if we’re honest, realistically, it happens for about half the teams by the All Star Game in July.
But this isn’t the time to dwell on that! This is a time of hope! A time to say like the kid in the movie “Angels in the Outfield”, “It could happen”. (It COULD, right?)
The problem is, I’ve tasted sweet victory enough times to be hooked on it. Yes, it’s been 29 seasons since my Cincinnati Reds have gone all the way. But I’ve seen them do it three times. This team has a rich history of winning and has had a great fan base for 150 years. It’s where I grew up. It’s where I watched and played the game. It’s where I caught the baseball bug.
If you were a boy in Cincinnati in the 60s and 70s, you played baseball.
And there’s absolutely nothing like watching your team win the World Series. To see the catcher run out and jump into the pitcher’s arms while the rest of the team sprints to the center of the field in a group-jump-up-and-down-fest, and the deafening crowd is so overwhelming the announcer can no longer be heard, so he just turns off his mic and watches with the rest of us while the fireworks explode, and the bedlam unfolds, is an experience that defies description.
Chills.
It’s specially impacting if you’ve been following the team since day one of Spring training. You’ve watched and gotten to know the players. You’ve felt the pain of every loss. You’ve rejoiced in every victory. You’ve kept track of the standings. You’ve bragged about “your team” (as if you had anything to do with it) and you’ve felt the connection with family and friends who’ve shared your loyalty.
Now living in Texas, my Lovely Wife and Life Partner Lois and I love watching our Texas Rangers compete as well. They’ve come so close, but they’ve never quite gotten the big one.
Not yet.
So I’ll be there again this year, watching my National League Reds and my American League Rangers battle all summer long. I can’t wait.
The ultimate? To see both my favorite teams win their respective leagues and play in the World Series. I honestly don’t know who I’d pull for. Sure, naysayers will chide, “Come on. That’s a long shot at best. Never happen.” Oh, yeah?
“It could happen!”