Photo Credit: westwinddi.com

I was born and raised less than an hour from Pittsburgh, and I'm a lifelong fan of the Pirates. My first in-person game was during Three Rivers Stadium’s inaugural summer. My dad surprised me with the visit. Although I don’t remember much of the game, I vividly recall the moment the stadium came into view, and I realized where we were headed. The scorecards from the games played while I was growing up held names like Clemente, Mazeroski, Stargell, Parker, and Sanguillen.  One of my junior high school substitute teachers was major league relief pitcher Bruce Dal Canton, who sometimes veered off the lesson plan to tell us stories of his days with the Pirates. 

My grandfather was a talented ballplayer, and the Pirates invited him to join the team in the early part of the twentieth century. Head-turning salaries were decades away, and the money he could carry out of the dark tunnels of the coal mines was more certain than what he could make above ground on a baseball field. He influenced my love of the sport with his stories of playing pick-up games with Pirates legends Pie Traner, the Waner brothers Lloyd and Paul, and meeting the famous Honus Wagner, whose picture adorns the most expensive baseball card in the world. Grandpap would listen to games sitting on the porch or in his favorite easy chair, transistor radio and Iron City beer on the table next to him, offering his analysis of the game along with broadcast Hall of Famer Bob Prince. 

Prompted by job-related moves to other states, I've shared my heart with other teams. The Boston Red Sox, New York Yankees, and Chicago White Sox lured me into the American League for a while. My longest baseball affair was with the Philadelphia Phillies. Chris and I fell in love with the unkempt, unshaven 1993 Phillies. Our World Series dreams were shattered that year in game six when Toronto's Joe Carter launched a game-winning home run off the pitch of Mitch "Wild Thing" Williams. My son Jonathan’s first in-person game was that year at Veteran’s stadium. When we returned to the area a decade later, I bought a Sunday season ticket package. I witnessed Samantha down several vanilla ice creams in little plastic batting helmets, Jonathan and I witnessed Kevin Millwood’s no-hitter in the spring of 2003, and he and I attended the last game ever played in the stadium before it was razed. A pair of the stadium’s seats rest on my patio. Jonathan and I attended the beginning of game five of the 2008 World Series in Philadelphia. Because of a lengthy rain delay, I watched the Phillies finally win the game and the title from my couch two days later. A World Series jacket hangs in my closet, and I occasionally sport the bright red of a Phillies cap instead of the Pirates’ black and gold. 

The Chicago Cubs and St. Louis Cardinals are nearby. I enjoy watching games in their ballparks and one of my most treasured moments happened at Wrigley Field. In July 2019, during a break in a game, Jake asked for my blessing to marry Samantha. But neither will ever be my team. They’re both central division rivals, and no matter how far back in the standings the Buccos might be, my loyalty stands firm.   

Each year the arrival of the season marks a new beginning. Regardless of what the sport’s prognosticators say or what you can realistically predict from a team’s roster, you have to allow for possibilities. This year could be the Pirates first playoff appearance since 2015, their first central division title since its creation, or they might take home the league pennant or World Series trophy that’s eluded them since 1979. I realize these are long shots, but reality has no place in a fan’s world before the All-Star break. 

I listen to games like my grandfather, but the transistor radio has given way to the MLB app, and Iron City hasn't made it to the Midwest. I sit on the deck or in my favorite easy chair and cheer, groan, and coax the team through wins and losses. Bob Prince and my grandfather are long gone, but sometimes I can still hear Prince's, "You can kiss it good-bye" after a home run ball or grandpap's lecture on fundamentals after a bobbled grounder. 

For me, the start of the season is more than just the promise of the next 162 games. This time of year teases me with warmer weather and thoughts of fishing trips, vacations, and lazy summer days. January is traditionally the time for resolutions and new year goals, but April and its greening grass, new blooms, and longer days are a chance to reset and recharge. To think about personal rebuilds, the pursuit of individual wins, and achieving long-term goals. 

The game takes grief for its pace, length, and strategies dictated not so much by skill and experience but by algorithms and databases. I admit I've grumbled about games that never seem to end, multiple pitching changes, and some faceless suit in New York overruling calls on the field. But no sport is perfect, and fan complaints are as much a part of the game as hot dogs, beer, and sunburn. For me, baseball season is about the reassurance of tradition, the comfort of nostalgia, and the hope in possibilities. It’s the promise of new beginnings offered in three simple words:

Let’s play ball.