Springtime in Cincinnati.

It's back, finally, after a long, dreary break -- baseball season. As I've mentioned before, I'm one of those suckers who get a little giddy every year, right about now. Against all logic, I believe this is the year my team will contend, and we might well see some October baseball right here. Maybe it's not illogical, though . . . I mean, they now have a big-name manager with a record of success, a brand-new, proven closer, a solid offense . . .

See? There I go again.

Anyway, Opening Day is tomorrow, and I wish I were going. It used to be that the first game of the Major League Baseball season was always played here in Cincinnati. In its never-ending effort to destroy its own game, MLB has done away with that tradition, but the day is still a big event. People take the day off work, pull their kids out of school, go to the parade and then to the game. I have so much work piled on my desk right now that I don't know where to begin, so I suppose in a way it's fortunate that I don't have a ticket for tomorrow, but still . . . I wish could go.

I have tickets to ten home games this season, the first being this Friday night, against the Phillies. Could be fun, could be bitter cold, you never know. As the year progresses, I'll see a game here and there every month, including the last game of the regular season, when I fully expect to be cheering the Reds on to the post-season. In June, a road trip: my son and I are going to New York to see our team take on the bad guys at Yankee Stadium. I think that weekend is destined to be the highlight of our summer.

This year, in honor of the 50th anniversary of the Reds' Hall of Fame, the team has featured many members of the Hall on their tickets. I chose the tickets you see here not because I have any particular interest in seeing the Braves play, but because of the absurdly named player pictured on them -- Heinie Groh, as in, Hey, keep eating those hot dogs like that and you'll get yourself a real case of Heinie Groh!

Oh, the hilarity!

Play ball.

My Loss Will Be Your Gain.

I just returned from the ballpark, where the Reds took a one-hit, 4-0 thumping at the hands of the Chicago Cubs' second-stringers. Good news, though: the place was packed. The inevitable bad news: the place was packed with Cubs fans. The crowd was 35,000 strong, and about 25,000 were there to celebrate Chicago's clinching the Central Division crown.

It's funny, Wrigley Field is a great place, and I had plenty of fun there when I lived in Chicago, but a day there is a less a sporting event than it is the world's largest chugging contest. The typical crowd there isn't exactly known for its baseball acumen. I'll hand it to all those Cubs fans who made their way to Cincinnati, though. That was pretty cool, and they had the ballpark rocking like it never has in its five-year history. I'd say it must have been pretty demoralizing for the Reds, but how much enthusiasm could they really have left after six months of having their asses kicked?

But don't just take my word for it. Listen to the perspective of another Reds fan:

I'll Take You Where the Green Grass Grows.

I'm one of those suckers who get excited about baseball every year, right about when winter has become tiresome and depressing, but spring still seems ages away. I know it's a cliche, but that feeling, knowing that spring training is about to start, that's hopefulness. Somehow your heart tells you anything can happen, and this might finally be your team's year, no matter what your head tells you about how bad they were the year before. And my team, the Reds, were really bad last season.

And this year . . . well, guess what -- my head was right. They're bad again. In fact, they're terrible. Yet again. They last won the World Series in 1990, and haven't even had a whiff of the post-season since 1999. Things have been familiarly dismal in 2007. So that early-year hopefulness has long since worn off, and in its place I feel a sort of resignation, about as far from enthusiasm as my feelings can be.

Yet I keep going to the ballpark, like the sucker that I am, because there's just something I love about the game. I went to Tuesday night's game, and watched the New York Mets pound the Reds into submission, but you know what? I still enjoyed it. I love the pace of a baseball game, I love the little bright spots that even the worst teams have. For the Reds, one bright spot has been Brandon Phillips, who not only plays hard, every inning, but willing comes out of the dugout before the game and signs autographs. He smiles and talks to the fans, which doesn't sound like much, but it's a whole lot more than most other players do.

The other part of all this that means a lot to me is that I go to most games with my dad. I guess it's another cliche, right? Fathers and sons, sharing baseball, and all that? Still, it's nice. We went a little over the top a few years ago at Comiskey Park, but generally these outings are a great way for us to spend time together. I don't like missing them.

Baseball is perfect for that kind of thing, ready-made for contemplation and nostalgia. I remember one chilly March day in the late '80s, when I lived in Chicago, I was out walking with my camera when I saw an open equipment door at Wrigley Field. I walked in and found myself on the right field warning track as the Cubs' grounds crew busily manicured the field and painted the seats. Nobody asked me to leave, so I walked around, taking pictures for about thirty minutes. That I found this thrilling, and that I recall it vividly today even without the photos, might strike the non-fan as more than a little odd. Fans get it, though.

"The Cure," by Katharine Harer

baseball is a good antidote for death
where else do we mutter belief scream
hope over green grass bathed
in light where else do we coach the best
out of one another

it's all right baby
you can do it
settle down guy
you'll be okay just hang in there
we need you buddy
we need a spark
be the ignitor man

our whispered pleas combine over rows
of seats and peanut calls and pour into the ears
of our boys fixing them
with our best hope the best we have to give

nowhere else do we do this together
reverently from some untapped placein our chests saved for our children
and our lovers we thought we'd used it up
but listen to us croon making our voices
carry just the right mixture
of love and demand

our throats are sore
the peanut shells under our feet flattened
from jumping up and sinking down again
our heats extended
pumping belief
into this one afternoon

you can do it
you can do it for us
do it now come on
do it now

from Line Drives: 100 Contemporary Baseball Poems, 2002.