The Waiting Game

It is Valentine’s Day and I long to hear my beloved whisper those words that every woman wants to hear:

Pitchers and catchers report on Thursday.”

It is the time of year when you start to forget what baseball feels like. It is 18 degrees. The fields are blank white pages waiting to be filled with the season’s stories. The baseball being played indoors seems like a cheap imitation. Crisp plastic astro-turf grass. Fielding drills without a field. Hitting off the predictable, soulless mechanical arm of a machine. Being Yasiel Puig on Playstation 4 instead of you. Soon we will be taunted and harassed by images of swaying palm trees and sunny, blue Florida skies.

The closer we get, the further away it seems.


To me, baseball is much more than a sport. It is a timeless dance; unconquerable, relentless in its order, something that always makes sense in a nonsensical world. It is dramatic theater full of deception and deceit, heroes and demons, dreams realized and dreams lost. It challenges our thinking to a particular kind of speculation, analysis and argument. It offers a temporary escape from reality and abundant lessons about reality. It starts as just a simple game then turns to an obsession, an addiction, a torrid affair, a state of mind, a religion.

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