Dear Baseball,
This was always our day. Not just you and me, although we had a special thing on our own. But you, me, and every grownup or kid who spends the winter staring out the window, waiting for spring.
This was always our day.
We’d pick out a special outfit, arrange all the plans, toss and turn with anticipation, and then pop out of bed like a kid on Christmas morning to watch the past lead us to the present — a place where we were irrevocably hopeful for the future.
Strangers became friends. Friends became enemies. Bunting was hung, and sides were chosen. The lights, the sounds, the pageantry… it never got old.
This day and all its personal and collective significance had been circled on the calendar for months. Countdowns were started. Debates were stoked. Predictions were made. But none of that mattered as much as this day.
And we were so close. Our day was within reach.
Until it wasn’t.
This time, our day looks pretty different. Today is less about the future, and more about the now — history being written as we, well, wait. Because it’s the only thing we can do.
This time, there are no parades, no crowds, no legends and rookies sharing the day together. There are no “firsts” and no “finals.” There are no surprises or plot twists.
This time, there’s …silence.
But it won’t last. Not forever.
We’ll be back together again, and we’ll set our sights on the goals and the achievements we’d once taken for granted. But that’s not what I’m looking forward to the most.
No, I’m just looking forward to you, me, and thousands of our closest friends getting our day back. Even if it’s different. Even if it’s uncertain. Even if it isn’t as big or over the top. As long as it is, that’s enough.
This was always our day. And the one after that. And the one after that.
That’s the real beauty of it: the consistent presence that followed this day.
And that’s what I miss the most.
Patiently Waiting,
Me