Spring's Arrival

Guest Column With phone in hand, I check the number again and begin to dial, only to hang up. What was once such a simple procedure has become a detailed and confusing debate. The number remains in front of me still, I pick up the phone, take a deep breath and dial? "Phillies, may I help you?" "I'd like tickets for the home opener?" That phone call answered the questions that I have been asking myself for the last nine months. Would I go back? Would I return to baseball, one of my two definitions of springtime? For my friends and me only two things typically get us through the frigid month of February, both signs of warmer days to come: Sports Illustrated's Swimsuit Issue and spring training. While not quite as exciting as Kathy Ireland in a Speedo, catching the late Sportscenter to hear about the Orioles' new rookie sensation and waking up to sports radio debates over the Phillies platoon in left field help get me through the dreariness of February and begin to stir longings for Opening Day. Little is more exciting then the first trip to the ballpark each April. The first glimpse of the park always brings a smile. The leisurely walk past the vendors with a Coke in one hand, two hot dogs in the other, is merely the start of gameday preparation. One needs a program more to feel part of the game than to keep score. The moment that makes the trip, however, is the first look at the field. The first look at the eager players warming up on the freshly-mowed grass is like coming home. Yet this February passed without a hint of the happenings in Florida. No smiling sports reporter claiming the Phils have the tools to take the pennant this year nor any background shots of smiling kids straining for autographs. No highlights of last year's World Series nor quotes from rookies trying to make the big show. This February was filled with talk of strikes, lockouts, labor negotiations and replacement players. The whole off-season was a nightmare. The Swimsuit Issue came, but spring training did not. With no pictures of Kathy in the issue, the annual arrival of spring was put on hold. Instead of debating the starting shortstop or the final roster cuts, debates ensued over salary caps and antitrust exemptions. My friends would ask me which side I favored, the players or the owners. Were the players too greedy, or should they be able to get all the money they can earn? I wavered back and forth, then suddenly realized that both sides were wrong. They were both wrong because they took the game away and let themselves believe they were too important. I now realized why I turned off so many nightly installments of Baseball Tonight once strike talk came on. I hated it all, and sincerely missed the game itself. So as the players return to the field and replacements back to their homes, there is still no labor agreement. Despite the chance of another strike, I am slowly allowing myself to get swept up in these weeks of blockbuster trades and free agent signings. I hesitatingly get caught up in debates over the magnitude of Cal Ripken's run at Lou Gherig's record. Even with another potential strike looming, I am beginning to debate the fate of my hometown Orioles versus the mighty Yanks, and am slowly subscribing to the theory that the Phillies have no bullpen. Each day, I tentatively turn on ESPN and check the paper for the daily report from spring training. Yet here I sit, phone in hand, wondering what message I was sending by buying the tickets. What was I telling both the owners and the players as I debated purchasing tickets for the home opener? That I couldn't even wait for the second or third game to see what I had so dearly missed? Well, I ordered the seats. I succumbed. On Friday, April 28, I will be at the Vet to watch the Phils open another season filled with cautious spring optimism and a big hole in right field. At the park, I will be thinking about the woes of my beloved Orioles, clambering in baseball's toughest division. I may be a sucker, but I am back, a full-fledged baseball fan again, sitting in section 503, eating my dogs and my peanuts, ignoring all talk of strikes and settlements to dream of on-the-field highlights, mishaps and milestones. Both signs of spring have arrived, each a little tainted, but still welcome nonetheless.

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