Dear Baseball, or, what wondrous love is this.

The spring has started, with flowers, allergies, light.

Pitchers and catchers.

You come, too.

Truly, there is no sight sadder than one baseball glove.

No sight more grand than a familiar figure scraping the dirt and flinging a ball back to you.

Now, you try.

We can study the stats of runners left on base with two outs in the 6^th in June afternoon games in a dome.

We might paint Catfish Hunter in bold yellow and green.

We could read Ball Four and find it tiresome. Then we can read Men at Work and love George Will, though he’s a Cubs fan and controversial. He has suffered enough.

We could discuss a pitch cracking Bob Gibson’s leg as if we were standing in the on-deck circle: with relief and guilt and awe, like all gods inspire.

We can still pray for Lou Gehrig, woolen number 4 falling from his shoulder blades as he bows his head and tips his cap.

We can still curse Craig Biggio, helmet drenched in tar and elbow wrapped in black plastic. He lunges across home plate.

There is time enough to study.

Now we will play.