It only happens once a year. It’s one of those things that you remember from your childhood. One of those things that you look forward to every year.

It is the time of year that unites fathers and sons with the smell of freshly cut grass, the shine of the sun and the blue of the sky.

It is the time of year that brings people of all colors, backgrounds, status, shapes and sizes together for one common goal.

The murmur of a settling crowd, mixed with sunglasses and the sight of the upper deck are visions that stir American men’s souls.

The sight of the gladiators running swiftly, diving and jumping. Sacrificing it all for the sake of a play.

The man on the mound, concentrating, breathing slowly. Never wavering, despite the fear in his heart.

Sixty and a half feet away lies his nemesis, also concentrating, staring intently—mind working, guessing but never really knowing.

It’s the battle that brings spectators to spectate. The hopes of seeing Ryan’s mastery or Jackson’s destruction. The hopes of seeing Thomas’ patience or Belle’s intensity.

The smell of hot dogs and popcorn butter. The ketchup, the mustard, the relish and the pretzels. The nachos, the soda and the pizza: some of the finest cuisine known to man.

This is the time of year that men tell their sons or daughters about how they saw Maris hit no. 61.

It is the time of year that grandfathers tell how they caught the home run that Gherig hit in ’33.

“I was there when Ripken played in no. 2,131,” a woman says.

“Well I saw Molitor hit no. 3,000,” her husband says.

The records that may fall, the balls that are hit. The strikeouts, the home runs, the slides and the throws. This is what makes up the game and its name.

From Ruth, Cobb, Cy and Feller to Williams, Yazstremski, Lynn to Ryan, the game has become great.

From Gibson, Page, Bell, Campanella and Doby to Robinson, Rice, Griffey and Thomas, the game has history that has made it greater.

The strikes have helped it lose its luster. The game needs whatever support it can muster. Millionaires on strike: what a concept. Well, what can you say? Only in America.

The great pasttime has become more about money and less about what is important.

The sound of the kids and the scream of the crowd don’t seem to matter to some. Just the number of zeros that follow that two, three or five.

It’s the smell of the beer and the fizz of the pop that make the games fun. A chance to catch a foul ball or even get an autograph—that is what keeps fans in the stands.

Putting out a winner helps once in awhile, but the excitement of cheering for your favorite players is what most enjoy.

It’s the time of year that America waits for.

Who’s going to win the Series? Will Maddux win the Cy Young again?

Can anyone top the Yankees? Will Thomas, Belle, Griffey or Fielder hit 62 this year?

It’s anybody’s guess. That’s what it’s all about.

Hearing those fools on SportsCenter Dan Patrick and Keith Olberman call a strikeout a “whiff” and saying that someone hit the ball real hard. That’s what gets me hyped.

No one has to like baseball. There is no rule that says you do.

I know at times it’s slow and there is little action. But nobody can say that when their home team is in the World Series, or even makes the playoffs, they don’t feel a little pride.

The inter-league play that will start this year will finally show who would win if the north and south sides clashed.

There is plenty to hate but plenty to be excited about.

The massive castles of battle, Coors, Camden, Jacob and the Ballpark make their mark by mixing old and new, while Wrigley, Tiger, Fenway and Yankee mark the days of our youth.

It’s time for spring training: my favorite time of year. A fan I am, and a fan I will always be.

Don’t forget who is behind you, Mister Million Dollar Player — the ones who got you there. Stop counting your dollars and play with some heart. Play like you care.

I got nothing but love for ya, so play ball and do your thang.

---

Rhaason Mitchell is a junior in journalism and mass communication from Chicago.