Opening Week!

I first started following baseball midway through the 1991 season - a good year to pick up the sport, since it ended in one of the best World Series of all time. (Twins over Braves in 7 Game, Jack Morris, Kirby Puckett, etc.) By the time the 1992 season rolled around, I had drunk the Kool-aid. After more than nine years, my dad had basically resigned himself to the fact that I would never be a baseball fan, and was thrilled when my interest finally developed, better late than never. When he saw that his Red Sox were at Yankee Stadium for opening day, he immediately picked up two tickets, even though it was a weekday afternoon game. Fourth grade be damned.

The game was great: Mo Vaughn, in his first full season, hit a huge home run. Roger Clemens pitched a complete game (in defeat, but still). Sadly, the Red Sox lost. And even more sadly, the loss would turn out to be a harbinger of a decade of futility by the Red Sox and, soon enough, dominance by the Yankees. But no matter: I got to watch batting practice, I kept score (using a kind of primitive score-keeping invented by my dad to cater to a nine-year-old), I had a hot dog.

Me - every year.

The next day, as I got off the school bus, I was welcomed by the school principal, a very friendly man with an unpronounceable last name: we called him "Dr. A." He smiled down at me and, with no trace of bitterness or sarcasm, asked, "How was the game, Alex?" I wasn't exactly sure how he knew where I had been. Possibly, he knew that yesterday had been opening day and just put two and two together. Or maybe he had overheard me tell my plans to anyone who would listen. At nine years old, it may not have even occurred to me that there was any reason to keep them secret. Looking back, I have to applaud Dr. A's sense of perspective. I'm sure he took his job seriously, but I think he also knew that my memories of that game would outlast my memories of that particular day of fourth grade.

There's no way I could have realized how lucky I was to attend opening day. I've been to a ton of baseball games since then, but I've only been to one other opener: the Braves' first game at Turner Field in 2009, against the Nationals. And that one was just a dumb luck, right place right time kind of deal.

I can't just drop work and assorted other responsibilities to go to opening day - especially now that I have children. But the thought still crosses my mind every year. The next best thing to actually attending opening day is coming home from work at 3:00, turning on the tv and cracking a beer. On a Monday afternoon, this is decadent enough to make me feel that I'm at least doing something to mark the beginning of the season. I kept the tradition going this past Monday.

My wife says she can relate to that old song from Damn Yankees, "Six Month Out of Every Year," in whichbaseball widows bemoan the loss of their husbands to the baseball season. That's me alright: from April through October, baseball is a big part of my life. The games are always on the radio when I drive, and on tv in the background while I grade papers. The ESPN scoreboard updates are always open on my computer while I do anything else. In fact, I've checked them no less than twenty-seven times since starting this entry. The men in the Damn Yankees song complain about their crappy Washington Senators. My teams - the Nationals and the Red Sox - have both been pretty competitive lately, but the equivalent for me has to be my fantasy baseball team, which continues to stink, year in and year out, no matter who I draft.

It pains me to admit it, but football has obviously surpassed baseball in the estimation of most sports fans in this country. Not for me. Baseball is at the center of many of my most meaningful friendships. It's the central focus of some of my best memories. It gives me a little jolt every morning when I realize that, even though I have to wake up, I at least get to check the box scores. With apologies to Christmas, this is the most wonderful time of the year.