Silent Spring

Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright,
The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light;
And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout,
But there is no joy in Mudville—mighty Casey has struck out.

—the last stanza of Casey at the Bat by Ernest Thayer (1888)

Today, alas, he won't even get to the plate. 

The baseball season has been suspended in the amber of the coronavirus, and Major League Baseball stadia across the country will stand empty today, instead of being filled with the unbridled optimism of capacity hometown crowds on Opening Day. Sigh. I understand why this is happening and I support the decision, but that doesn't mean I have to like it.

Living in northern Minnesota, I am inured to spring's reluctant arrival. While my heart quickened at the sight of fresh daffodils in North Carolina three weeks ago, here we're still trying to melt the backlog of Thanksgiving snow. Winter in Duluth is a test of endurance, which makes the arrival of baseball season that much sweeter. It's a sure sign that spring is actually en route. (Can lilacs be far behind?)

When the calendar reads April it must be time for the boys of summer to trot onto center stage, whether the ground is thawed or not. March Madness is over (whether the games are played or not), and it's time to see if any of those rookies will be worth their signing bonuses.

I know many people—good people even—for whom sports is nothing more than a distraction. I am not in that number. In addition to being a distraction, sports are an art form, offering a glimpse into the outer boundaries of how the interplay of body, mind, and discipline can be channeled into incredible feats. At their best, performances on the athletic field can be breathtakingly sublime, uplifting of the human spirit. (Can anyone watch Simone Biles' floor routine and dismiss that as a mere distraction?)

I grew up learning an appreciation of sports from my father—and of baseball in particular. Many a summer night we'd sit in the driveway and listen to KMOX broadcasts of the Cubs and Cardinals on the car radio. My dad would smoke a cigar and I learned to "see" the game through the picture painted by the inimitable words and energy of Hall of Fame announcers Harry Caray and Jack Buck. Those were magical times.

I learned the rhythm of baseball (much different than the hurly burly and violent ballet of football), its insider argot, and arcane strategies—which are singularly cerebral and measured, emphasizing individual match-ups that build slowly to a tipping point, and then resolving in spring-loaded fractions of a second. (You go to the bathroom between innings, not during them, so as not to miss subtle shifts, like the third baseman cheating toward the hole when the batter has two strikes.)

I would ordinarily be listening to the live radio broadcast of the Giants-Dodgers game this afternoon—Opening Day at Dodger Stadium. While fiddling with dinner prep in the kitchen, my ears would be tuned to Jon Miller and Dave Fleming (every bit as good as Caray and Buck, for my money) describing the play-by play of Cueto versus Kershaw. And all would be right with the world.

Sadly, of course, all is not right with the world. First we have to weather the pandemic—something we'll be doing without the ameliorating benefit of live sports. We'll get through it, but I'm grumpy about it. And now the summer Olympics have been postponed as well. Ugh.

I yearn to hear the home plate umpire yelling "Play Ball!" more than I'm eager to witness the first snowdrops blooming in the front yard. Don't get me wrong. I get along fine with Nature. I'm thrilled that we've just sighted two freshly hatched great horned owlets in a white pine up the back alley (much to the consternation of the neighborhood crows), and it's been fun observing a black bear slowly stumble out of hibernation in the creek bed across the road. 

But this will be a silent spring in the world of sports, and I'm taking a moment today to observe the unnatural quiet of Opening Day.