Just an opinion. I’m not asking that you agree with me.

Christmas, birthdays, anniversaries, special family commemoratives are all occasions holding distinctive meanings most worthy of celebration, carrying with them dire consequences should one fail to recognize them properly. But since the days of my early childhood, the day marking the start of another Major League Baseball season is ‘the best day of the year.’

This year that ‘day’ came earlier than most with the new season beginning on March 29, the earliest start to a MLB season in history. It also marked the first time since 1968 that all 30 Major League teams began the season on the same day. One can reasonably argue that asking ‘the boys of summer’ to begin their craft when Mother Nature had not yet excused Old Man Winter from his abusive behavior was not well thought out, especially in those ‘tropical’ climates of Detroit, Cincinnati and New York City.

Regardless of what baseball may or may not mean to you, it symbolizes much more than a game. For those of us living in the northern climes, it’s a rebirth, a signal that at last the days of spring, green grass and warmer days are just around the corner. Baseball is a six-month companion that can carry the commitment of a long-term relationship or the casualness of a wave over the backyard fence with your neighbor. The information contained in the daily-published box scores can be perused with the intensity of a mystery novel or glanced at with the nonchalance of checking out the weather forecast. But it is there every day to be enjoyed or fretted over.

As the new baseball season began, I was reminded of my decade’s long relationship with Dr. Creighton J. Hale, the former president/CEO of Little League Baseball who passed away last fall. We each shared a love of the Boston Red Sox and somewhere along the way I had referenced that the ‘best day of the year’ was the opening of the baseball season. Dr. Hale ‘rubbed elbows’ with some of the most famous men in the game and could recall baseball stories with the best of them.

Several years had passed since I had been a member of the LLB staff but one April morning a co-worker on our Lycoming County United Way staff came into my office to inform me that a gentleman wanted to see me. I asked, “Who is it?” She replied that she didn’t know, but the man had indicated the importance of the day.

As I went to meet him, there with a big smile on his face Dr. Hale greeted me saying, “I just had to stop by and say hello on this best day of the year.” It was the opening day of the Major League Baseball season, and somehow he had remembered that conversation we had shared so many years earlier.
Like it was Christmas, he then handed me a book relating the history of the Red Sox. “Here,” he said. “This is a great book about our team. I hope you’ll enjoy it.” Then with a handshake, he departed commemorating our love of a new baseball season.

As I awakened on the morning of the new 2018 season, my anticipation was dampened by the news of the passing of Rusty Staub, a 23-year Major League veteran whose career spanned stints with Houston, Montreal, the New York Mets, Detroit and Texas. Although Staub and I never met, I had always hoped that one day we would, as from my perspective our lives were briefly linked.

On the Opening Day of the 1962 baseball season, I was among the crowd at the inaugural season for the Houston Colt 45s. The team played in Colt Stadium, a temporary home until the construction of the nearby Astrodome was completed in time for the 1965 season. As a student at the University of Houston, I had gained a part-time job directing traffic in the stadium’s parking lot. For a teenaged baseball fan, it was a dream job. Got paid and after the third inning got to see Major League Baseball free of charge!

In keeping with the Colt.45’s mantra we wore quite the get-up. We sported orange coveralls and cowboy boots, with a blue cowboy hat and neckerchief. We had a holster around our waist which provided convenient storage for the flashlight we carried. As ‘an extra perk” we entered the stadium through the same gate as the players with adjoining locker room facilities.

As the 1963 Colt .45’s season opened the team had added Rusty Staub, then a 19-year old phenome to its roster. Although our baseball talents were vastly different, we shared the same height, red hair and entered and departed the stadium through the same gate. Staub was vastly popular, and fans sought him out at every opportunity.

As the season progressed, I was sometimes stopped after games by fans asking for autographs, thinking I was Staub. I would politely tell them I wasn’t him and moved on. One evening a mother with her young son spotted me and asked me to sign a baseball. After offering my standard explanation about the misidentification, the mother began to be upset and blasted ‘Staub’ for his insensitivity towards the young fan.

From that time forward each time I was asked for ‘a Staub autograph,’ I reasoned rather than giving Staub bad P.R. for not signing, I would oblige. Consequently, there are a few autographed baseballs out there sporting a Rusty Staub autograph signed by yours truly. Ever since I had held out hope that ‘someday’ I would have the opportunity to meet Staub and confess my actions. Sadly, that opportunity never materialized.

Rusty Staub loved the game, and those Houston fans loved him. His passing on Opening Day was marked by special tributes at the openers of the Detroit Tigers, New York Mets and Texas Rangers.

Memories make baseball special. For baseball fans, it is the best day of the year.