Cardinal pitchers and catchers have offically reported to prepare themselves for my favorite pastime- a game that has captured my heart, never failing to find a way to break it, but never ceasing to grasp at the opportunities given to lovingly mend the broken pieces and make it whole again. There it's dwelled for what's been years, has always flourished, will reside forever and yet never, ever, outstay its welcome. Elementary but poetic, offering hope and crushing dreams, rewarding but taxing...No words better accomodate what this game means to me beyond the humbly simple, "I love baseball".
I don't know how to compare this to anything else because nothing else compares to baseball. Those unaware of its meaning see it as a ball, bat and group of overgrown children. But for those of us aware of its power, we know that it's tattooed itself into our hearts and minds.
Oh baseball. How do I love thee? Let me count the ways...
Baseball is the competition, the months of much welcomed warm weather often spoiled with punishing humidity, the days I'll head downtown to see for my own eyes what preparation meant to the team. It's the vendors whose voices refuse to chime in unison, the stadium junkfood that tempts all patrons. Baseball is opening day (better than Christmas), Cardinal fans stubbornly wearing red, the elegant Clydesdales boasting with tradition, organist Ernie Hays and his little jingles we've all memorized and learned to clap with like the puppets we've been trained to be. It's Albert Pujols reliably adding to his unbelievable career, Tony LaRussa's stoic dugout face (yup, even that), the endless nights I'll have something to watch at 7:10 pm and the long drives home where Mike Shannon and John Rooney mercifully keep me company. It's the unneeded but still rewarding post-game interviews that serve as a bonus to that night's win, one last chance to see today's hero taking advantage of his minute to recite as many sports cliches as possible. It's mocking the cynicism of Dan McLaughlin and thanking God for the very existance of Cardinals baseball. And who could forget the overcrowded parking garages following plenty a-post game filled with trapped fans all too eager to honk their joys in fun or their sorrows away...or so I've been told. This is what I've patiently been waiting for since that unusual last day in Pittsburg (oh how we've been spoiled). Of course, it'll be all I wait for even in the relatively short hours between regular season games (please tell me you love me back). It's in the back of my mind all the time,nestled between the area where memories-both relentlessly painful and blissful-cross paths. And it's finally here. At Last.
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