Come out! Come out! Wherever you are! Baseball is here!

I have no idea where Spring may be, but no matter the weather, BASEBALL IS HERE!
Hibernation has ended. The crack of the bat has come back to town, along with the boastful sounds of early predictions of a glorious winning season and the call to get your World Series Tickets early.

Opening Day, so long wished- for no matter if it is played on schedule or after suffering through weather delays or even postponement for a day or two, to get a firm grip on the hopes and challenges of a season of cheering crowds greeting the skills of major leaguers throwing, hitting, chasing and catching well-hit baseballs right out in the open spaces within a ball park.

Vendors hawking scorecards, hot dogs, popcorn, cold drinks, peanuts and pizza mix with excited sounds of fans streaming through clicking turnstiles and on into their seats, as the blaring public address system announcements of line-ups tingle hearts eager to bear witness to the wisdom of trades and advancement of the new team about to start the season of hope and joy.

Yes, the waiting for “Next Season” has ended with the ump’s call to “PLAY BALL!” It just doesn’t get any better than this.

Reflections of past baseball games and seasons dance in our hearts and heads. Even those days of past struggles with both success and failures once again can recall the mixed emotions of surrounding times long gone by. Boyhood memories capture not only being taken to a major league game for the first time, the first chase of a foul ball, and the gift of the first autograph. The joys spilled beyond the diamond remain with us to this day.

Well before our first visit to the ball park were the wonders of owning our first baseball glove, which needed to be pounded by hand until a pocket was formed to retain caught balls, and the magic wand of a baseball bat that could smack the ball with a sound unlike no other to firmly proclaim success.

Perhaps the best-remembered acquisition was a brand new baseball, complete with hard cover and stitches for a firm grip for throwing and even pitching.

In those first days of acquisition of the tools of the trade, they all came as one each. Only one ball with one bat and one glove. It was a hard learning process to realize that the ball would not last as long as the bat and glove; the “Rocket” baseball wasn’t as tough as regular hard-cover baseballs.

The first thing to go was the stitching, allowing the cover to be knocked off of the mysterious looking inside core of the ball. Initial attempts to keep the ball in play included taping over the loosened stitches, but when the cover ripped away for the final time, the cover was discarded and the tape was wrapped around the inner core, until that would soon unravel and get smaller with each hit.

One of the saddest moments in all of my baseball recollections was not when my favorite major league team lost a game or were eliminated from the pennant race, but on the day when I settled under a fly ball as it dropped out of the sky toward my waiting glove, but the ball had vanished and only a strand of fiber landed. The game was over. I cried.

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