On Monday afternoon, I should have been thinking about the enormous amounts of writing I have due before I can walk across the stage at Sanford Field House. Or the jobs I need to apply to so I know what I’m doing after that not-so-glorious day. Or even this very Editor’s Column.
But all I could think about was how many strikeouts Tim Lincecum would rack up that evening against the Astros. (Seven, as it turned out).
Welcome to the real new year. The MLB’s Opening Day is like Christmas for baseball fans. Sure, it may be disappointing if you don’t get what you want. But no matter what, nothing can ruin the spirit of the season.
From when pitchers and catchers report until the champagne pops at the World Series, I live and breathe baseball. I thrive on ERAs and OBPs. I wear my #55 t-shirt with pride. I will get physically upset at even the subtlest mention of the Dodgers.
Goodbye schoolwork, hello box scores.
I was born and raised a San Francisco Giants fan. From my first game at age five, I was hooked. Every year, my dad would pull me out of school to go to the home opener. We’d leave my house at the crack of dawn, ensuring that we’d reach Candlestick Park before batting practice. Maybe we’d even get an autograph or two. For a preteen girl with an oversized glove and a cap covered with commemorative pins, nothing could be better.
However, I don’t think I truly loved the game until I left home. When I came to Colgate, the Giants became one of the best ways to grasp onto my Bay Area roots. Televised Giants games are rare over here, so I started doing the unthinkable–refreshing the play-by-play feature on the Giants’ website. “Watching” a triple play or a three-run homer on that site was about as anticlimactic as it got, but at least I could keep up with what was happening. By now I’ve figured out other ways to enjoy a game from the comforts of Case Library. But those first few months of only watching the raw numbers deepened my understanding of the game and gave me a new appreciation of just how special it is to be able to listen to the crack of the bat and see a magnificent left-field catch.
As I now contemplate whether or not to stay back East after I graduate, I am comforted by the fact that I will always have America’s pastime to (at least spiritually) bring me back home. After four years of living in the baseball wasteland that is Central New York, I know that living in any city within a 50-mile radius of a National League team will be a privilege.
So, play ball. And mark my words, you’ll be seeing plenty of black and orange this October.