There are louder sports. Faster ones. More violent, more choreographed, more monetized. But there is nothing—nothing—quite like baseball on Opening Day.
Today, the season begins again under the long shadow of history, with the New York Yankees and the San Francisco Giants taking the field. Tomorrow, my beloved Pittsburgh Pirates open against the New York Mets. And just like that—spring is no longer a promise. It is here.
Baseball is a strange inheritance. A distant cousin of cricket, stripped down and reimagined into something uniquely American: a game without a clock, a game that refuses urgency. It does not chase time—it lets time pass through it.
Some call it boring. I call it contemplative.
Because baseball is not about what is obvious. It is about what is hidden. A glance between pitcher and catcher. A subtle shift in stance. The quiet code of behavior that governs the field—no taunting, no theatrics, no cheap displays. Even joy is measured. A home run admired too long becomes a message sent in the next inning, often at 95 miles per hour.
It is a game of secrets.
And for me, it is also a game of ghosts.
I remember sitting beside my grandfather, the two of us leaning into the static hum of a cheap transistor radio, listening to Pirates games as if they were sacred transmissions. He spoke in broken Italian, narrating players as though they were characters in a living epic. To him, they were not statistics—they were men to be judged, admired, debated.
Years later, I found myself awake at four in the morning in the cramped shell of a backyard camper, listening to Dock Ellis dance on the edge of chaos, throwing a no-hitter against the San Diego Padres. Nine walks. Hit batters. Bedlam masquerading as brilliance. It would later be said he was under the influence of LSD. Watching the box score alone, you might believe it.
But that night, it felt like witnessing myth.
Baseball gave me more than moments—it gave me formation.
In Little League, we were a lost cause. 0–12. A team going nowhere under a coach who had no business guiding children. Then came Coach Jerry—a man who understood something essential, not just about baseball, but about boys. The next season, we went 12–0
.
He believed in us before we believed in ourselves.
And then came the moment I’ve carried longer than any win or loss. I was chosen for the all-star team—barely. His son, just as good as I was, was left off. I called him and told him to take me off and give the spot to his son.
Not out of sacrifice. Out of clarity.
Somewhere deep down, I already knew baseball would not be my life. But fairness? That mattered. Still does
Baseball has a way of teaching you who you are before you’re old enough to understand the lesson.
I played through high school—never a star, always somewhere between ninth and tenth on the depth chart. But the locker room, the rhythm, the shared quiet between innings—that was enough. More than enough. It was the sweetness of belonging without illusion.
And now, every year, when Opening Day arrives, something stirs. A heaviness. A tenderness. Sometimes even a tear.
Because baseball doesn’t just mark time—it remembers it.
The Pirates, God love them, have wandered the wilderness for decades. Ownership more interested in balance sheets than pennants. A city that deserves better, waiting patiently along the banks of the Allegheny. Hope, however, is a stubborn thing. It blooms even in neglected soil.
There is a young arm now—Paul Skenes—who throws with the kind of authority that recalls Nolan Ryan. Maybe he’s the beginning of something. Maybe not. Pirates fans have learned to live inside “maybe.”
I’ve stepped back from the daily ritual. I no longer chase every game, no longer arrange my evenings around innings and pitch counts. But I still feel it—that pull. That quiet call of the game.
Because baseball is not just a sport.
It is a cathedral of memory. A slow conversation between past and present. A place where a boy and his grandfather can sit side by side, listening to something timeless unfold.
And on Opening Day, that cathedral opens its doors once more.
Hope walks in.
And for a moment—just a moment—everything feels like it might be alright.—
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