This year, the Opening Day spectacle is better than ever: Johan Santana and his first win in a Mets uniform, Joe Torre doing the same in Dodger Blue, international play, no Roger Clemens, no guy by the name of Mitchell, no Bryan McNamee.
This day is about hope. This day is about waking up and dreaming, even if you’re a Royals fan. This day is about possibility.
Yet, as great as this Day is, how am I supposed to be engrossed in it, put my all into it, look up how Vladimir Guerrero has historically fared against Pet Neshek, just in case they’d happen to face each other in the bottom of the eighth of the first of 162 games. There are 161 games after this one.
And how am I supposed to transition from the climatic, exciting, dramatic NCAA tournament to a game with Gus “I Need A Sedative Even In a Blowout” Johnson calling a game (”and the slipper stillllllll fitsssss!!!”) to Bert Blyleven, who could feed a Third World country if he was given $1 for every time he said “at the Major League level” or “innings of work.” It just doesn’t compare. And couldn’t they allow some sort of recovery period? I’m just coming off of Davidson-Kansas here.
We like different sports for different reasons. I like college basketball for its excitement and variety. There are enough games where it is possible to recall fantastic finishes, incredible highlights — but adding those to our always-evolving Sports Fan Timeline. When I watch a college basketball game, especially one in March, I won’t be on the couch, I’ll be off it, clapping, cheering, leaping.
Baseball is different. Unless you live in a place like Minnesota before the year 2009, your games are in the outdoors, many after dark. The ballpark is illuminated, that little glowing ball has eyes, and people sit around for two-hours-plus. For fifteen minutes, you might stand, if your team happens to be winning in the top half of the ninth. Baseball is routine, day in, night out for 162 games. There’s some comfort in this.
This day is about hope. This day is about waking up and dreaming, even if you’re a Royals fan. This day is about possibility.
Yet, as great as this Day is, how am I supposed to be engrossed in it, put my all into it, look up how Vladimir Guerrero has historically fared against Pet Neshek, just in case they’d happen to face each other in the bottom of the eighth of the first of 162 games. There are 161 games after this one.
And how am I supposed to transition from the climatic, exciting, dramatic NCAA tournament to a game with Gus “I Need A Sedative Even In a Blowout” Johnson calling a game (”and the slipper stillllllll fitsssss!!!”) to Bert Blyleven, who could feed a Third World country if he was given $1 for every time he said “at the Major League level” or “innings of work.” It just doesn’t compare. And couldn’t they allow some sort of recovery period? I’m just coming off of Davidson-Kansas here.
We like different sports for different reasons. I like college basketball for its excitement and variety. There are enough games where it is possible to recall fantastic finishes, incredible highlights — but adding those to our always-evolving Sports Fan Timeline. When I watch a college basketball game, especially one in March, I won’t be on the couch, I’ll be off it, clapping, cheering, leaping.
Baseball is different. Unless you live in a place like Minnesota before the year 2009, your games are in the outdoors, many after dark. The ballpark is illuminated, that little glowing ball has eyes, and people sit around for two-hours-plus. For fifteen minutes, you might stand, if your team happens to be winning in the top half of the ninth. Baseball is routine, day in, night out for 162 games. There’s some comfort in this.
