The worst days are the ones like we had Tuesday, or one the forecasters insist we’re getting Wednesday. When it’s rainy and cloudy — or, last weekend, snowy — that’s when it’s easier to forget that we are missing our daily fix, our regular diet of baseball.
It’s when the sun shines high in an impossibly blue sky, when there’s just enough warmth to kiss your flesh and promise that summer is coming … well, those make the absence seem all the more real. All the more depressing.
And it doesn’t even matter that neither the Mets nor Yankees were scheduled to play in the afternoon on either of these days. Both, in fact, would’ve been on the road, far removed from the city, the Mets in Phoenix and the Yankees in St. Petersburg.
That’s all right, though: so much of why baseball appeals to us is rooted illusion, after all: the fanciful figment of a perfect pennant chase; the strident belief that today’s loss will surely be followed by tomorrow’s win; the mirage of eternal summer.
And now, of course: the belief that if baseball can only come back, in some form or fashion, then we can start to feel like ourselves again. We can start to feel whole again….