Ah, opening day.
Fierce thunderstorms then clear skies. Oak and Juniper pollen fills the air. Left over March winds whip the flags at the ballyard. Thirty cities secretly whisper, 'This is the year.'
Well, in New York they growl, "This better be the year. Again."
Nothing but aces on the mound. Hitters tuned up and turned up. Standing room only, from sea to sea.
Like spring, the shoots are all green and tender. Everything is new. Winter is gone. Time to start over. A clean slate awaits.
Not so fast ye fans of Kansas City baseball. This is the garden patch nobody tended. Nobody pulled up last year's dried out tomato vines lurching every which way like varicose veins on meaty untanned legs. Nobody cleared away the moldy remains of sycamore and walnut leaves from the last days of fall buried from Christmas Eve until March 15th beneath the snow. Nobody turned the soil and dug in new compost.
This opening day knows no season, no year, no rebirth. Like waking up to the same old alarm after yet another fitful night of too-little sleep, the coffee tastes just as bitter as it did yesterday.
We had our bright shiny moment in the late 1970s and early 80s -- sorry if you missed it -- and the forecast, unfortunately, isn't good for a return.
That said, the home nine will probably roar back Wednesday with a resounding victory and some among us will start thinking about World Series tickets. The rest of us will be feeling drowsy from the allergy medicine.
--Lofflin
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