The Opening Day of baseball represents all things American

Megan Schimpf Prescriptions

Spring officially began Tuesday. The vernal equinox was March 21, which is when astrologers and calendar-makers mark the beginning of the budding season. After wearing shorts and T-shirts for the whole weekend, anyone in Ann Arbor might have thought spring had already started.

But the indisputable marker that spring has sprung is that bats cracked balls Tuesday afternoon in states north of Georgia and in parks that were snow-covered and silent less than a week ago.

Tuesday was Opening Day for most major league baseball teams.

Nothing compares to the Opening Day aura: crisp uniforms, ceremonial first pitches that redefine "pitch-out," ceremonial speeches and electrified crowds. Hope and optimism pervade every ballpark on Opening Day - from the World Series champion to the cellar dwellers, everything starts over with new twists, new faces and new statistics.

For once, it's about the game and the magic of being a ballplayer, instead of the standings or the pennant race. This inborn anticipation is practically incorruptible, and this is what makes the beginning more special than the end. Springtime's magic is in the air, and sportsmanship has yet to lose its glow.

My family used to go to Opening Day at Tiger Stadium. I remember sitting in the sun, a stolen day from reality just to watch a baseball game. I remember speeches by the mayor, the team owner and the pre-game show emcee, who was usually a radio broadcaster. I remember the sheer excitement of being there, experiencing the first few moments of spring and summer. I remember eating lunch at a classic Detroit restaurant, full of other people also destined for the corner of Michigan and Trumbull.

What I don't remember is whether the Tigers won. Opening Day is about atmosphere and ambiance. September is about winning and losing.

Regardless of how you now feel about baseball, remember how you felt before the strike, before salaries skyrocketed, before expansion created teams with names you might attribute to farm teams. Back when you played in the community league, or in the street with the other kids.

Think of "Field of Dreams" baseball. "Bull Durham" excitement. Dreams worthy of "The Natural."

Think of this: On a beautiful day in St. Louis, Mark McGwire hit a grand slam homerun Tuesday, the first Cardinal ever to do so. Ken Griffey started the season with a solo shot later that day. The two are projected to battle this season for one of baseball's most hallowed records - Roger Maris' 61-homer mark.

Cal Ripken played.

Baseball - true baseball - is still the American pastime. No other sport has quite the hold that baseball does, because baseball has a nostalgic quality that transcends athletics. It's the same as what attracts us to Bruce Springsteen, apple pie, Fourth of July fireworks and family reunions. It brings most of us to a game at least once a year, to sit in the bleachers and eat big pretzels. It draws thousands each year to a tiny town in upstate New York, the cathedral of all things baseball. There in Cooperstown, the stadium has real grass, no sushi and no retractable top. The faces in the Hall of Fame are timeless; it is the chance to look at baseball with the hazy light of fond memory.

All these things keep Opening Day dear, and draw us back year after year. They keep baseball as the hallmark of spring. They forever separate baseball from football, basketball and hockey. True, the modern version of the sport may not be the old baseball we want to revere. But everyone still has a soft spot for Opening Day, and deeper down, baseball's venerable tradition.

So regardless of how you feel about baseball in September, or if you'll even care, a little rush of excitement on Opening Day is universal. It is wrapped up in the elation at seeing spring and the temptation of all that is new in the first week of April.

With that first real pitch, the crack of the bat or the thump in the glove, the fun begins. On a green grass and dusty dirt background, flags flying and venders hawking, all is right. Bite into a hot dog, do the wave, stretch in the seventh. Buy some peanuts and Cracker Jack.

When summer comes, spend an afternoon at the nearest ballpark. Take the chance to soak in the atmosphere, the sun, the simplicity. Know that you might need to wade through commercialism to find it - literally, if you happen to be at the new stadium in Phoenix, which has a spa, pool and swim-up bar in the right-field seats.

But it's still there, as no day but Opening Day can show us. Keep looking - it's worth it. See you there.

- Megan Schimpf can be reached over e-mail at mschimpf@umich.edu

04-02-98