A baseball season has a story. It has drama. It has failure. It has redemption. It has collapses and comebacks. April and September can feel an eternity apart. Players and teams can be unrecognizable at the beginning and at the end of those six months. Football is fun. Baseball is love. It is a game for the hopeless romantics. An individual game might not matter as much, but the entire season feels like a novel. It is not a date that comes once a week for four months. It is a love which is there with you every evening. You enjoy that date which comes once a week, but you appreciate the love which is present every day. You might take it out to the stadium once a month, maybe even less. But you check up on it every night or every morning. It is not three hours of fun on a weekend. It is something that goes on in the background every evening while you are doing something else at home. The hopes start building in February. You are excited about the beginning in April. By July you might feel its not going where you want it to go. Yet by September you are once again nervous and excited. And when October comes around, you think back to February and wonder how far you have come. By the end of it all, you are either dancing in front of the bars Second Avenue with friends and strangers, or you feel like your heart has been ripped out from your chest. The emotions and the energy you invested in it either results in a ticker-tape parade on Broadway, or you are drained and left in despair at the failure of it all. But with time you wait for the coldness of winter to pass away, and with the sound of the ball hitting the glove you know that warm weather and sunny days aren’t far away. And then, everyday for eight months you fall in love all over again.

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