Time
moves differently in November, in December, and in those next few months that
follow. We go about our lives, days turn into nights and into days again, but
something doesn’t feel right. It’s as if we’re all frozen somewhere. It’s as if
we’ve lost a reason to be interested in the world, and we can’t always explain
why. Occasionally we actually do see that final, painful image—Kenny Rogers
throwing ball four, Mike Piazza’s fly to deep center, Carlos Beltran taking
strike three—but on most days, the uneasiness is buried deep in our subconscious.
Something that is supposed to happen every day has ceased happening. We are, in
some profound way, empty.

Three
words wake us from our slumber: pitchers and catchers. Suddenly we remember
what it was like, to watch the game each night. We remember Jose rounding
second before any fielder had laid a hand on the ball. We remember Beltran
ripping it over the rightfield fence. We remember Mr. Wright leaving Mariano
Rivera out on the mound, staring, helpless. We remember we had 172 of these
things last year, and we can’t remember regretting the time we spent on a
single one. And then we realize why the winter has been so slow—to us, that
last out happened only a few minutes before.

Once
awakened, all that remains is the waiting. We wait for spring training
games to start. We wait for the pitchers to go four, five, six innings. And then
we just wait. It turns out the awakening isn’t nearly enough to make us whole
again. We need the games—the real games. We need an opposite-field double from
David. We need to learn Spanish with the professor. We need a catch from Endy.
We need “it’s outta here!” We need Delgado and his notebook. We even need
“Enter Sandman.”

Tonight,
our discontent does end. It’s not just the “Play Ball.” Nor is it
simply the magic of the first game of the season. It’s the peacefulness that
comes from knowing that tomorrow (or at worst, the day after), there will be
another game. And then another. And another. No more uneasy nights with visions
of Octobers past. There is now a calmness. There are now always plenty of games
left to go—plenty of Pelfrey starts, and Joe Smith sinkers, and Beltran homers,
and Reyes triples yet to happen.

Now,
glorious summer begins.

Let’s
go Mets!