If it’s true that baseball is America’s pastime, it’s because of the first game of the season. The smell of freshly cut grass, the visual delight of a wide expanse of green held in by white lines and brick dirt, clashing with the chaos of sounds and colors in the crowd is a refreshing first dip into a world that whispers of a thousand games played on a thousand ball yards. The sensory experience of a spring day at a ballpark in Arizona, with players close enough to touch and families crowding in to see their favorite players, is in itself worth the drive. Walk around the park and your worries slide off; eat a hot dog, some peanuts and drink down a cold beverage and you get, for few fleeting hours, a new perspective. This is baseball without the high-stakes pressure of million-dollar television exposure. Instead of win at all costs, it’s play at all costs, and managers, players and umpires relax, play the game and enjoy the sunshine. The fans follow along: each side cheers heartily for their favorite team, yet the banter in the stands is about the players, not the winning, and it takes on the tenor of the experience.

Hey, what’s that tag dangling off your pitcher’s shirt?
It’s a bus ticket. The way he’s pitching, they’re gonna put him on the bus right after the game. Heck, probably after this inning – and they might make him drive the thing.

The score? Couldn’t tell ya. What I do remember, though, is one brief exchange, long after the game. Driving around the corner of the ballpark looking for photo spots, we stopped to let an older, grizzled ballplayer limp across the crosswalk. His knee was in a full length brace, and he hobbled along so slowly that I rolled down the window, leaned out and said to him: “Hey, you okay?” He looked up, smiled wide and said, “Yeah. I’m good. I’m good.”

And he meant it.