Pine Tar, a sluice of tobacco, sunflower seeds and juju are all common elements connected to one thing —”baseball”— the sport where many are called and few are chosen.
That’s always been the mantra linked to baseball. Of course the sport can hold a different meaning in the eye of the beholder. To some it symbolizes the dawn of spring on the horizon.
For others it’s a way of life. A secret religion, if you would. Elements of knowledge, stats, heartbreak and moments of triumph are all worthy of being passed on because each holds, and bears, a lesson worth teaching to those after us.
The memories of your first game, of being present with a parent or close friend, are so integral to the mindset of one forging pact in this lifestyle. So why not celebrate opening day?
In a day and age where the world feels like it’s caught in a time loop and no sign of the end on the horizon, or actually in our reach as a species, an old friend awakens from its dormant slumber. Alas, a few months late but still a welcome surprise. As of 7pm eastern time, today was opening day.
As of today Jerseys are brought out from the deepest part of storage. Fans rush to buy new hats endorned with the team of their choice. They rush to clamor, to go to war and scream their hearts out.
Rivalries are once again reignited by the gasoline of bad blood and history. The once dormant ballparks awaken with the souls of a past once forgotten. The sense of euphoria fills the empty seats with a motion of vitality fueling the teams engaged in combat on the battlefield.
Remember the good old days? When sports were an escape from our daily routine lives? We could see history unfold before our very eyes. Partake in the rally’s of hardship by standing behind our teams exhibiting signs of grit and passion.
The atmosphere was integral to help shape and mold our principles on the foundation of bringing society into a better light. Of course there were positive and negative outcomes attached to our healing process.
However the days of yore may be behind us because God went into his tool bag and threw us a curveball, and we stood by and took the first strike but we didn’t give up. We put our heads down then dug into the batter box. We gripped the bat and swung as hard as we could. We finally got a hit.
A baseball season is actually happening. In all truth, this year might be one for the ages because it will exist with no fans in attendance, zero pumped in crowd noise, no cardboard cutouts of fans.
Also to note, the once marathon run of 162 games has dwindled into the sprint-esque atmosphere of a 60 game season. All 30 teams have a solid chance of raising a banner and a world series in late October, or possibly early November.
Of course whoever does win this year will be able to cement their legacy with a stamp to close on the historical experience of 2020. So I got two words, Play Ball.
