It's coming. It's almost here.

It’s the High Holy Day of my religion.

Everything is new. All are reborn. Glory returns with the spring, and the Boys of Summer as well to relieve us of our worldly travails, however briefly.

Soon we will turn our backs on the rest of the so-called Anglosphere, where they subscribe not to the faith (except in certain parts of Canada) and join with our true brethren in Japan, Korea, Mexico, and most of el Carib (except for weirdo places like Jamaica) in religious ecstasy as we celebrate The Return. The smell of fresh-mown grass, the salt tang of peanuts, the crack of wood meeting horsehide, the roar of the crowds gathered together in Celebration Of All That Is Good And Holy. On that day even the Cubs have a chance, and the Tigers are undefeated.

Sunday, April 3, 2005 is Opening Day. Red Sox/Yankees, starting at 8:05 pm.

Dear God, I love baseball.

Could you put a little excitement into your post, Ex, please? :smiley:

Easy for you, maybe. I get to pick between sticking with the Orioles or switching to the Nationals.

I’m trying to think of the equivalent in your religious analogy. What were those monks that beat themselves?

Lucky you. The High Holy Day of my religion doesn’t come until Monday, September 19, 2005. :slight_smile:

Were I you, I’d stick with the O’s.

If you go the other way, however, I wouldn’t consider it heresy. All are welcome in the House of Baseball.

Amen. Sing it, Brother (or Sister, as the case may be).

What an odd coincidence!

April 3, 2005 also happens to be the opening day of my religion.

We worship by consuming gallons of barley-hop goodness, sacrificing bovines over an open flame, and observing displays of athletic prowess.

Some will not survive. Some will survive, but be forever addled. We call those chosen few The Bullriders. The wise, we call The Team Ropers. The priests, The Announcers, with their court, The Clowns.

I understand that the religious season opens in shifts in various parts of the country, but our local celebration is always the first Sunday in April.

Hail to the Rodeo!

The Flagellants. :smiley:

Preach it!

Do they still play the blues in Chicago
When baseball season rolls around
When the snow melts away,
Do the Cubbies still play
In their ivy-covered burial ground
When I was a boy they were my pride and joy
But now they only bring fatigue
To the home of the brave
The land of the free
And the doormat of the National League

The following was written by the great Ernie Harwell, Tigers’ broadcaster for over 40 years, and was read on his induction into the baseball hall of fame. In my opinion, there is no better definition of the game.

Baseball-A Game for all America

Baseball is the President tossing out the first ball of the season and a scrubby schoolboy playing catch with his dad on a Mississippi farm. A tall, thin old man waving a scorecard from the corner of his dugout. That’s baseball. And so is the big, fat guy with a bulbous nose running home one of his (Babe Ruth’s) 714 home runs.

There’s a man in Mobile who remembers that Honus Wagner hit a triple in Pittsburgh forty-six years ago. That’s baseball. So is the scout reporting that a sixteen year old pitcher in Cheyenne is a coming Walter Johnson. Baseball is a spirited race of man against man, reflex against reflex. A game of inches. Every skill is measured. Every heroic, every failing is seen and cheered, or booed. And then becomes a statistic.

In baseball democracy shines its clearest. The only race that matters is the race to the bag. The creed is the rulebook. Color merely something to distinguish one team’s uniform from another.

Baseball is a rookie. His experience no bigger than the lump in his throat as he begins fulfillment of his dream. It’s a veteran too, a tired old man of thirty-five hoping that those aching muscles can pull him through another sweltering August and September. Nicknames are baseball, names like Zeke and Pie and Kiki and Home Run and Cracker and Dizzy and Dazzy.

Baseball is the cool, clear eyes of Rogers Hornsby. The flashing spikes of Ty Cobb, an over aged pixie named Rabbit Maranville.

Baseball just a came as simple as a ball and bat. Yet, as complex as the American spirit it symbolizes. A sport, a business and sometimes almost even a religion.

Why the fairy tale of Willie Mays making a brilliant World’s Series catch. And then dashing off to play stick ball in the street with his teenage pals. That’s baseball. So is the husky voice of a doomed Lou Gehrig saying., "I consider myself the luckiest man on the face of this earth.”

Baseball is cigar smoke, hot roasted peanuts, The Sporting News, ladies day, “Down in Front”, Take Me Out to the Ball Game, and the Star Spangled Banner.

Baseball is a tongue tied kid from Georgia growing up to be an announcer and praising the Lord for showing him the way to Cooperstown. This is a game for America. Still a game for America, this baseball!

Thanks for the great posts, Exgineer and all. For me, the High Holy Day is a bit earlier. It’s the first day that KNBR broadcasts live from spring training. Just hearing the dulcet tones of Jon Miller, Kruk and Kuip, and even the new kid Dave Fleming tells me it’s gonna be OK.

I love baseball on the radio.

I’m used to getting a certain amount of grief every season for living in northern Virgina and being a Yankees fan, but it’s a little worse these days because people keep asking me if I’m going to be a Nationals fan… :slight_smile:

Heck, here we’re already in the middle of the beisbol season - the dry season.

And in Panama, Mariano Rivera is regarded as a Living God.