The Rites of Spring

Baseball is like church.  Many attend, few understand.

Leo Durocher

When I was a kid, I was very much aware of the coming of baseball.  I knew that baseball would soon fill the park again and my hope, journalist Mike Barnicle called it a child’s hope, comforted me with the idea that the Baltimore Orioles would be great again.  My father took it easy on me and allowed me my dreams and allowed me to experience the rite of spring – irrational optimism in the face of dubious evidence.  Presidential historian Doris Kearns Goodwin once wrote on the topic of following the Brooklyn Dodgers and constantly opining for “next year.”  You know what is great about the here and now?  It is next year. 

Now, if you’ve read my profile, you might speculate that I’m a Baltimore Orioles’ fan.  If you know baseball, you know the Orioles have been struggling for over a decade now.  This is particularly painful because of the great tradition the city and its baseball team has enjoyed.  If one is not a baseball fan, it might seem a little silly the way baseball adherents speak of the sport in reverent and hushed tones, filled with ethereal imagery (I feel the same way about how enthusiasts speak of golf).  However, baseball does not just represent second chances but represents our history and traditions.

And I remember my first baseball game and my parents bringing me up through the tunnel to see the greenest, most manicured grass I’d ever seen.  My mother pointed out things (she used to work for a minor league team) and everywhere I looked, something new grabbed my attention.  The men on the field seemed larger than life and in conjunction with the sounds of fans filling in, I smelled hot dogs and peanuts.  I remember the wooden coldness of the seats and the squeak of the chair moving up and down.  The adults around me were vested and donned a hat denoting their favorite team.  This was before the large scale merchandising of t-shirts, jerseys and other paraphernalia.

As the first games of the season were played a couple of weeks ago, I felt refreshed and renewed.  An old friend had returned and I was once more enjoying their company.  Those familiar names are emblazoned upon that great uniform – a splash of orange on white with the old-style cursive script across the chest.  These men, who seem hidden or sequestered over the chill of winter, suddenly re-appear and send my hope towards the heavens with dreams of playoff glory.  In the fall, I will feel a bit despondent and will feel a bit lost.  Yet, for now, I can smell the grass and hear the shouts, the slap of the leather and the crack of the bat.  Life is good, the circle is renewed and it is time to “play ball.”