For as long as I can remember, baseball has defined my springs and summers, provided structure, a calendar, entertainment, travel, and many friends to share the game with. The sounds of ball smacking into glove, bat hitting ball and the voices of Jack Brickhouse, Harry Caray and Len Kasper (among others) have provided the soundtrack to my summer.
All of this has always been as regular as anything in life, dependable in its inexorable march from a team’s 0-0 record, seemingly providing hope to all, only to sometimes see it end in a 65-97 failure. For me as a Cubs fan, there was the endless “When is next year?