My daughter sent me a poem this week called “The Catch,” by Simon Armitage, the poet laureate of the United Kingdom. I have not studied poetry in years, so there might be a deeper meaning or symbolism here. But it seemed fitting enough for opening day:
This Major League Baseball season, too, was seemingly beyond us. For 99 grim days, the club owners and the players bickered and postured and threatened to take it away. Yet here it is, back again, our annual symbol of growth and renewal and the promise of warm days ahead. To quote another Englishman, Sir Paul McCartney: It’s coming up, like a flower.
Baseball has flaws. It always has and always will. These days it often deals in extremes: lots of strikeouts, home runs and pitching changes. All of those aspects of the game, on their own, can be appetizing. At its best, though, a baseball game is a more balanced meal.
Alarmists have concluded that this lack of action has doomed the poor old game. But if you study baseball history, you find that people always conjure reasons to criticize the sport. Every generation considers itself faster-paced than the last, so baseball, which makes you wait for the action, is an easy target.