Tom Glavine toes the rubber and glares in at the catcher. He nods, and sets for his windup. The batter is digging in, kicking the dirt like he is trying to get gum off his shoe. The whole stadium is silent. Waiting. Anticipating. Glavine winds up and whips the ball over the outside corner of the plate…STREEEIKE 1! A new Season has begun.
It is opening day, the greatest day of the sports year. The grass is cut in elegant designs and is waving joyously in the soft breeze. The stadiums are packed and throbbing with intensity. It is a new beginning. Hope is a not a lingering scent in the air, but a reality that everyone can grasp. The excitement in palpable.
Baseball is not a sport; it is a way of life. A religion; a creed to live by. This is baseball. The great American past time.
There is truly nothing better than going to the ballpark, whether it is the Damn Yankees or the beloved Red Sox. There are few things in this world that compare to walking down Yawkey Way and entering Fenway Park for the first time. The Green Monster looms over the field ominously and the green walls make it appear as though the stadium arose out of the ground centuries ago. The famous Coke Bottle atop the green monster stands porter between the stadium and the real world. It is a magical place, where history is thickly intertwined with the present.
This is why Baseball is great; the rich history, which follows us into every season; the records, which ache to be broken. The myths, and the truths, the legacies. For baseball is all about remembering the past, remembering Kirk Gibson’s epic homerun, or the hit heard world round. And it makes sense, for what is the present and future without the past? Nothing.
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