Opening day has always meant something special to me. It all started with my father--- every year on opening day, he would load me and my brothers and sisters into the '73 Chevy station wagon, and off we'd go to Riverfront Stadium. On the way, between choruses of "Take Me Out to the Ballgame", Dad would make sure we realized how lucky we were to live in Cincinnati, the home of the Cincinnati Reds--- the first professional sports team ever. It was because of this contribution to sports & the world as we know it today, he explained, that Cincinnati was honored with the distinction of hosting the first game of every new season. All of that didn't matter to me at the time---I just wanted to yell and scream with 60,000 other people while holding a hotdog in one hand and wearing my baseball mitt on the other (as if a foul ball could ever reach the extreme altitude of our cheap
seats).

A few years later, baseball did away with that time-honored tradition, and the only people who seemed to notice were the good people of Cincinnati. The furor died down in time, and the only time it surfaces today is on opening day, and then only in Cincinnati's local media. My opening day routine has changed with time as well. No matter what is going on in my life--- whether I have work, class, a dentist appointment (ask me about this one sometime), or whatever, I make sure I'm either sitting in a stadium seat or a barstool when the umpire shouts "PLAY BALL!!!". I raise my beer in a toast to the new season, take a bite of my hotdog, and relish the game from first pitch to last. That is, until this season. You see, I fell asleep while waiting for the start of the game (5:08am, my time). I woke up at some point in the second or third inning, but it wasn't the same. Opening Day had become an event that only the host country could experience, and my tradition, as well as American baseball tradition, had been dealt a terrible blow.

Don't get me wrong, I believe the MLB should play games in other countries--- the Japanese have long embraced the game, forming their own professional league in 1936 (bet you didn't know that). Did they deserve to have a MLB regular season series played there? Sure they did--- just not on Opening Day. Maybe the games in Tokyo could've been played around the All-Star break, when there's a natural break in the season anyway. I whole-heartedly support the international expansion of baseball. As a matter of fact, it really started over 30 years ago when Montreal was awarded a MLB franchise. I think the MLB should continue to reward those countries that help stock the talent pool, and eventually should award franchises to deserving cities. It's only a matter of time before the game becomes truly international, and the World Series actually becomes the global event its name implies. But NOT at the expense of established baseball tradition.

It won't bother me if cous-cous, sushi, or fish & chips are served in the stands--- as long as I can get a "dirty-water dog", too. It also won't bother me if vendors are hawking sake, oolong tea, or wheat-grass juice to the crowd either--- as long as I can still hear, "Getcha beeah heeah! Ice cold Budweisah heeah!". Every city should add their own flavor to the game. I like the organized cheering that the Japanese fans do, and although banned by Japanese officials in the first game, I'm glad that the Met & Cub players asked them to allow it in the second game of the series.

Not all traditions are born equal, however--- some, more than others, should be honored forever and never allowed to die. The national anthems of both participating teams should always be sung before every game. Someone should always throw out the ceremonial first pitch---a local celebrity, a contest winner, or the President of the United States---it doesn't matter. Who throws the pitch is far less important than the actual tradition of it being thrown. It's a gesture of respect; an honor bestowed upon its recipient. The 7th-inning stretch is the granddaddy of them all. A popular legend says President William Howard Taft accidentally launched the practice in 1910 when he stood to stretch his legs at the opening game in Washington. The crowd, thinking he was departing, stood out of respect for the office. But old-time star Harry Wright wrote a friend in 1869 that fans stood in the 7th inning to gain momentary relief from the hard wooden benches of the 19th century ball parks. Whatever the reason for its inception, the seventh-inning stretch is now as much a part of the game as the ball itself, as is the song that we all sing during it. "Take Me Out to the Ballgame" may never have won any awards for musical excellence, but I can't imagine a ballgame without it, nor do I want to. The most important tradition of all, however, is one that only we the fans can keep from dying. Take your kids to a baseball game. It doesn't matter if you're 16 and you don't have any kids yet---store this advice away for when it does apply. If you're 60 and your kids are grown, take your grandkids. Teach them the difference between a sacrifice bunt and a drag bunt. Explain to them what the infield fly rule is, and why it's not called every time a ball is popped up in the infield. As they get older, tell them that they'll understand in a second why a fire-balling closer has thrown three straight curveballs to a hitter, then watch for the sudden realization on your kids face when the pitcher blows one by at 100mph, up and in, for strike three. Teach the rules of the game to your kids, but more importantly, teach them to love the game. This is the way traditions get passed on---if you don't teach them, who will? And hey, there's a nice fringe benefit to the process too---not only will they remember time in the ballpark as time they spent learning to love the game, they'll remember it as time they spent with you, too.

Just my two cents---make the most of it.

---Jeff

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