Uncertain spring

I want to write about baseball, because I love it the most.

I want to write about the joy that floods my veins at the sight of the green outfields and crisp uniforms on display in spring training, now well underway.

I want to write about renewal, about the promise of new life and 100-win seasons that every team can lay claim to as daffodils bloom and starting rotations are determined.

I want to write about my Dodgers, and opening day starter Clayton Kershaw, and how dominant he is in that role and in general. I want to say that online trolls who take pleasure in tearing him down because of postseason losses that are sometimes not on him wish they had a smidgen of the talented required to win one Cy Young, much less three.

I want to equate the pop of leather to optimism, a feeling sorely lacking in this country (at least from my perspective) after a Super Tuesday that cemented our nation’s backsliding (that’s a Southern Baptist term). I want to remember the countless games I’ve watched with people I love and smile.

But I can’t write about baseball just yet. I love it the most, and the things I love are a little blurred around the edges right now. Strong, solid centers like a well-worn glove, but details fuzzing down the first base line. It feels a little like having one of my ocular migraines. I take in the whole picture, but there’s a dark, squiggly line pulsating in the top right corner. I can’t see it all, or clearly.

 I know Monday, April 4, will be the single best stand-alone day on the 2016 sports calendar, preceded by a three-game appetizer on April 3. I know I have missed Vin’s voice and I’m so happy I get to hear it for one more season. I know Kershaw will bring all of his formidable weapons to bear against the Padres. I know the first time I see post-game fireworks, I’ll offer up a toast to Mike.

I don’t know much else right now, and I’m trying to find the OK in that. I love baseball, and the people I share it with, the most. On the cusp of a new season, anything is possible. Belief and hope are born in March and grow strong in April and May before sometimes wilting in the summer heat.

So I’ll believe and hope, and soon I’ll write about baseball.