Chicago White Sox 2, Cleveland Indians 1
And so we ascended the slopes of Olympus, going as near to the top as mere mortals dare. For on this day alone, the mythic figures of lore are not on top of the mountain, but instead move to a beautiful patch of sanctified green and brown, its surface lovingly tended by a horde of loyal servants. On this day, mortals look down from all around to watch figures both legendary and unknown do combat. The bright sun illuminates the mountain and the cold winds cut across the risky trails where worshippers of Bacchus wander.
For might this day be the beginning of a new legend? Although the Greek and Roman gods are now no longer worshipped, it is well known that anyone can live on in dreams, and that if those dreams are strong enough they can break free into reality. And truly, if a 86 year drought can end with utter destruction of an evil curse, surely these mortal dreams of a title to end 57 years of pain are not unrealistic, let alone one interloper's hope for a title to match one sixteen years in the past?
But those hopes will not be realized until 80 homes games into the future, and that future is obscured to us now. Let us instead sit back and enjoy the crack of the bat, the muffled thud as the ball strikes leather, for on the first pitch of the season Persephone slips her bonds and breaks loose from the icy domain of Hades, calling out to her mother in joy. And for a brief time, the people know some peace, the worries and troubles of their lives crashing against the walls of the ballpark like the Aegean on the rocks of Crete and Cyprus as they are united with people of all colors, sizes and ages during their brief sojourn in the land of the gods.
Last year's sentimental bullshit about opening day.
For might this day be the beginning of a new legend? Although the Greek and Roman gods are now no longer worshipped, it is well known that anyone can live on in dreams, and that if those dreams are strong enough they can break free into reality. And truly, if a 86 year drought can end with utter destruction of an evil curse, surely these mortal dreams of a title to end 57 years of pain are not unrealistic, let alone one interloper's hope for a title to match one sixteen years in the past?
But those hopes will not be realized until 80 homes games into the future, and that future is obscured to us now. Let us instead sit back and enjoy the crack of the bat, the muffled thud as the ball strikes leather, for on the first pitch of the season Persephone slips her bonds and breaks loose from the icy domain of Hades, calling out to her mother in joy. And for a brief time, the people know some peace, the worries and troubles of their lives crashing against the walls of the ballpark like the Aegean on the rocks of Crete and Cyprus as they are united with people of all colors, sizes and ages during their brief sojourn in the land of the gods.
Last year's sentimental bullshit about opening day.