On the eve of yet another entire season, we see baseball at its most enthused: Away all winter, it returns to us excited, overstimulated, falling on its face. In the past, it has assumed that we need to be drawn back in by pre-game carnivals, while in the present, a simple parade of the players through the outfield and into the dugouts while music plays typically suffices.
Lineups are announced man-by-man, someone yodels a poem written by a colonial lawyer, a few high-powered jets streak overhead, and for the next 25 weeks or so, we are occasionally captivated by the only thing ever referred to as a “pastime.