CLEVELAND — The game tugs at me.
There is something special in it — the ballpark sound not comparable to any other. It possesses a resonance I've known since I first heard it as a child.
It is never-changing and unmistakable. The thwack of wooden bat on leather-covered sphere is like a pied piper pulling me to the palace of the players. Whoever penned the phrase "hope springs eternal" was right.
I long to be in the crowd of fans in pilgrimage of sorts pushing into the cavernous stadium.
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It is early spring when the boys of summer help us distance from our winters of our discontent, inspiring us (if all goes well) to reach baseball's Fall Classic. So, we will gather once again, where we ballpark faithful will cheer the home towners.
For me, Cleveland baseball is a religion, of sorts. Certainly, the game is almost spiritual in that it helps uplift my soul. Here, as if in a cathedral, the family of baseball enthusiasts will gather.
The Cleveland players on the field wear and bear the city's name, showing they are part of us and we part of them.
And so we begin again. My heart is here, not only because my hometown team scurries across the field of play, but also because of the game itself. I am touched by this game, which offers no shades of gray.
Every pitch is strike or ball. Like life itself, baseball's actions are judged fair or foul, calling for declaration of safe or out.
The game's rules etched between the chalked lines of play are mostly the same since my childhood when I first learned them. This game of threes — three strikes, three outs, three-times-three innings — where the idea is to hit away and run the bases.
Baseball emphasizes we go out, but come home again. In the Cleveland ballpark, I am home in more ways than one.
And so we begin again, as the umpire will bellow with a full-throated voice signaling for us to "Play ball!" again.