Baseball is designed to break your heart. The game begins in Spring, with fresh hopes renewed, the rains beginning to subside, that first gorgeous glimpse of the blue skies of summer yet to come, flowers budding to life all around, and the World Series hopes and dreams of 30 teams and their fanbases, extending far beyond the limits of their respective cities.
The season always extends into a long summer, which inevitably brings with it triumph and despair; one heroic moment followed by a flights of clumsy error - leaving us on the edge of our seats in anticipation, waiting for the next epiphanic burst of joy to explode off the bat of one of those talented men we admire so much.
You can keep your museums and cathedrals and great architecture, for me, the most wondrous thing in the world to behold is a perfectly turned six-four-three double play to kill a rally by the visiting team. In those moments, as the warm summer nights extend later, I'm a kid again. And I'm lucky enough now to see it through my 9 year old boy's eyes as he learns and plays the game I've always loved.
But, for all that exuberant joy,the harshness of Autumn eventually sets in; bringing with it some cold realities. It tells you that the long, difficult winter is beckoning around the corner. That nights will grow shorter and colder, the grass will freeze over and be mushed to slush and mud, waiting for the sweetness of spring, for bees buzzing around, and the cleats of wide-eyed young boys and girls playing games on her. The blankets get heavy and the sunshine seems to recede into the land of dreams and memory.
Unfortunately, for 29 out of 30 teams 9 (and for their fans), that dream of childhood comes to a grinding halt. The clouds roll in and that last glimpse of that long sweet summer, the kind that we hope will last forever as a kid, is gone. Tears are shed. Families are depressed. Hopes are crushed. Cities are sunken in sorrow.
This is my 31st consecutive year of not seeing my beloved Los Angeles Dodgers win the World Series. It's also the 7th consecutive year for my favorite team winning the National League Western division, only to fall short in the playoffs. So, like others, I feel the tinge of sadness, I scrutinize roster moves and bullpen rotation decisions. But mostly, I'll just miss the summer time. Miss that feeling of joy at the ballpark. The smells and the sounds that take me back to being a kid again.
But I don't dwell for too long, because sooner than I think, Spring will arrive once again, bringing with it the hope and promise of a new day, a new year, and another chance to chase that childhood dream and make it live forever.
