It's the most wonderful time of the year.
I'm talking, of course, about MLB's Opening Day. It's that time of year that signals spring even when the weather remains mired in winter, when the sun may shine only upon the diamond, when the smell of freshly cut grass might really be coming from artificial turf. When bat flips and rookie starters remind you what it means to be a kid again. When it's fine to use purple prose and tired clichés to express just how ready you are for baseball.
To those of us for whom baseball was our first love, it's impossible to ignore that new-school-year feeling of anticipation, knowing anything can happen over the next 162 games, knowing that this glorious, grueling, nearly daily grind will carry us through the next six months, through summer and, if we're lucky, well into the fall.
To those of us who've waited through a long winter, one which saw thrilling, historic finishes in other sports -- "Congrats, Philly," she said, begrudgingly -- it will have been well worth the wait. To those of us who think baseball is life, today it begins anew.
Every first pitch is a new day. Every at bat is a chance to prove your worth. Every out is a notch off of 27. Every win is one step closer to October.
You might think I'm this wistful because, as a Yankees fan, I have a lot to look forward to this season. And yes, as a Yankees fan, I can readily admit that we're going to be extra unbearable in the coming months. Between Aaron Judge, Giancarlo Stanton, the ageless CC Sabathia and the best bullpen in baseball (I told you: unbearable), it seems the Evil Empire might be back -- and yet, I can't tell you how many fans of other teams reluctantly admit they genuinely like the Baby Bombers.
Outside the Bronx, I'm excited for Shohei Ohtani to face the hype; for five rookie managers to show themselves; for Andrew McCutchen's new, hopefully more storied, chapter; for the Mets' rotation to please, just once, stay healthy; and for Clayton Kershaw to continue to prove us wrong when we think he just can't get any better.
And, lord help me, I'm even excited for some (but not too many) of those jubilant victory dances by the Killer B's in the Red Sox's outfield.
Baseball, like all sports, is at its best when it doesn't take itself too seriously, a fact that I think and hope younger generations are surely realizing. Baseball is a sport in which Big Sexy's career outlasted Big Papi's. Baseball is a sport in which a ball could hole-in-one through the wall -- and still be considered a double. Baseball is the only sport in which Tim Tebow maybe (?) has a chance in the bigs.
Baseball is a sport in which the strive for perfection is almost certainly futile. Except when it's not.
It's silly and sad and so, so satisfying at times. Baseball really is life.
So here's to the real dawn of spring, whether you're enjoying perfect sun in the west, miserable rain in the east, or anything in between. For the next six months, you can go home again.