Mar 27, 2024 4 min read

By John Sacco

For the Observer-Reporter

newsroom@observer-reporter.com

Our group of friends would start talking about it upon returning to school from Christmas break.

We had guys from different grades at Washington High School ready to ride a Greyhound bus to watch the Pirates play in the home opener at Three Rivers Stadium.

It was a journey we looked forward to and enjoyed – nothing like missing a day of school to watch a ballgame.

The bus ride, which took us seemingly hours to complete, winded us through all communities between Washington and Pittsburgh and some nowhere close to either town.

By the time I had reached college, at West Liberty, the friend group had changed and the transportation upgraded from bus to car.

Sometimes we had tickets. Sometimes we did not. One time we sold our tickets outside Gate D to gain a profit and then bought cheaper seats. College kids are always looking for a few extra bucks, right?

The weather was almost always cold, sometimes snowy, often rainy, never nice or comfortable.

Yet, it all felt right.

That’s because Opening Day is:

· a renewal.

· exciting.

· a time for hope.

· the beginning of my favorite season.

· a celebration.

· better during the day and at home.

· having a belief that maybe this is the year.

· the closest thing to a postseason game, as far as hoopla and atmosphere, the Pirates will play each season.

· most enjoyable when shared with friends or just hanging out with your son.

· one of my anticipated days of the year.

Thomas Boswell wrote a book that was published 1984 titled “Why Time Begins On Opening Day.”

Wrote Boswell: “Baseball has traditionally possessed a wonderful lack of seriousness. The game’s best player, Babe Ruth, was a Rabelaisian fat man, and its most loved manager, Casey Stengel, spoke gibberish. In this lazy sport, only the pitcher pours sweat. Then he takes three days off (now four).”

And this: “The crowd and its team had finally understood that in games, as in many things, the ending, the final score, is only part of what matters. The process, the pleasure, the grain of the game count too.”

As far as athletics, nothing has ever moved me like baseball. It challenges me, captivates me, prompts a lot of thinking. The strategy, the statistics, the analytics and even listening to a game via a radio still satisfies and motivates me.

Today, however, the game is totally different.

Back when spin rates, launch angles and shifts were more about playing jacks, sending a rocket into space and working 8-to-4 at the mill than pitching and hitting data and stopping hitters from getting hits or on base.

Baseball is no longer the national pastime. Runs batted in, runs and batting average no longer define players like War, on-base percentage and OPS (on-base plus slugging percentage), launch angle, exit velocity, batted-ball distance, catch probability and pop time.

Live stream, X, apps, and social media have given the game immediacy.

Long gone are the days of waiting for the daily newspaper or the Sporting News to review boxscores. Now, we can look at them and follow any game in real time.

I bemoan the financial strength of the Dodgers and Yankees and others. At the same time, loathing organizations that turn profits year after year and fail – no, decline – to truly compete.

Money cannot buy pennants or World Series trophies. At some point you must win those last four games, rich, poor or indifferent. But cash, and a willingness to spend it, sure helps.

Baseball is not a perfect game. Although there are those rare occasions we get to see one. I haven’t been that lucky.

But I have been blessed to love the game, play the game, cover the game and write about the game.

No matter what rules change, how high salaries get, how much I disagree that Barry Bonds, Roger Clemens, Mark McGwire, Gary Sheffield and others don’t belong in the Hall of Fame, my feelings won’t change.

It is Opening Day.

From Boswell: “Sure, opening day is baseball’s bandwagon. Pundits and politicians and every prose poet on the continent jumps on board for a few days. But they’re gone soon, off in search of some other windy event worthy of their attention. Then, once more, all those long, slow months of baseball are left to us. And our time can begin again.”

My wife will provide the Cracker Jack, hot dogs and peanuts. I’ll look at some old baseball and Strat-O-Matic cards to amp it up.

It will be a good day, as it always is.

Welcome back, baseball.

John Sacco writes a column about local sports history for the Observer-Reporter.