There are very few days on the calendar that feel like a reset button. New Year’s Day may mark the turn of the calendar, but for me—and for millions of others—Opening Day is the true beginning. It smells like freshly cut grass. It sounds like the pop of the mitt and the low murmur of a crowd just waking up. And it feels like hope.
Opening Day isn’t just another day in sports. It’s a ritual, a national holiday in spirit if not in law, and a cherished piece of Americana that somehow manages to renew itself each year. No matter what happened last season, no matter the heartbreak or triumph, the slate is wiped clean. Everyone is 0–0. Anything is possible.
This year, like many others before, I find myself thousands of miles away from the ballparks I grew up visiting and watching on TV. I live in Poland now, six time zones ahead of the East Coast. And yet, despite the distance, I still manage to watch well over a hundred MLB games a year. I stay up late or wake up early, adjust my schedule, and immerse myself in the rhythm of the game. It is, without a doubt, the most American thing about me, no matter where I live.
For someone living abroad, baseball is more than just entertainment. It’s a tether to home, a connection to a culture that shaped me. When I tune into a game, I’m transported—not just to a stadium in Boston or Chicago or Los Angeles, but to a feeling. A sense of belonging. A shared language that doesn’t require translation.
Baseball has always been more than just a sport. It’s an institution, a mirror, and sometimes a balm. It’s uniquely American, not just because of its history, but because of what it represents: patience, individual effort within a team, failure as part of progress, and a deep, almost spiritual appreciation for tradition.
Opening Day dates back to the 19th century, with the Cincinnati Red Stockings often credited as baseball’s first professional team and traditional Opening Day hosts. Over the decades, it became a national event. Presidents have thrown out ceremonial first pitches. Schools used to wheel TVs into classrooms so kids could watch the games. Families built traditions around it, marking the unofficial start of spring with hot dogs, box scores, and high expectations.
What makes it enduring is not just nostalgia. Baseball’s magic lies in its structure. Unlike other sports, it isn’t time-limited (aside from the recently introduced pitch clock). There’s no running out the clock in a baseball game; instead of quarters or periods, there are innings. Each side gets its fair chance, and you have to earn the final, twenty-seventh out. It rewards resilience, punishes haste, and celebrates consistency. A .300 batting average means you failed seven out of ten times—and you’re a star.
That nuance, that long-haul drama of a 162-game season, builds a relationship between fan and team that is unlike anything else in sports. There is heartbreak, yes. But also redemption. Underdogs win. Veterans bounce back. Rookies surprise you. No one game defines a season, but every game matters.
Baseball also has a unique intimacy that other sports struggle to match. There’s a closeness between player and fan that comes from the sheer volume of games and the daily cadence of the season. The leisurely pace allows room for stories to unfold—not just on the field, but in the broadcast booth, in the stands, and in the minds of fans who carry statistics and superstitions like family heirlooms. It’s a game that invites you to invest not just in teams, but in moments, in rituals, and in memory.
I often think about how global the game has become. Opening Day isn’t just an American moment anymore. The best player in the world, Shohei Ohtani, hails from Japan. Stars from Venezuela, the Dominican Republic, South Korea, and beyond now define the league. Games have been played in Tokyo, London, and Mexico City. Japan, in particular, reveres baseball with a cultural appreciation that mirrors, and at times even exceeds, America’s own affinity for its pastime.
And yet, despite its international footprint, baseball still feels rooted in the American soul. Maybe that’s why it means so much to me. In a world where culture can feel disposable and identity can seem fluid, baseball is a constant. It is slow in the best way, steady, filled with texture and tradition. In Europe, where the sport is largely unknown, I sometimes try to explain it to friends. The pace, the strategy, the weight of history—it’s a hard thing to translate. But that’s part of its beauty. It speaks most clearly to those who grow up with it, and yet it still welcomes anyone willing to listen.
My love for baseball isn’t just about highlights or stats—though I could rattle those off all day. It’s about the quiet moments: a pitcher walking off the mound to applause, a batter fouling off pitch after pitch in a gritty at-bat, the broadcasters filling the air with poetry between innings (perhaps an art that is being lost, sadly). It’s about the history, the ghosts of Ebbets Field and the echoes of Vin Scully. It’s about the way the game feels like it always has room for one more story.
There have been changes, of course. Pitch clocks, bigger bases, new rules to speed up the pace. Purists grumble, but the heart of the game still beats. Opening Day still means what it always has: a new beginning, a blank page, a chance to dream.
For me, baseball is a bridge—between countries, between past and future, between who I was and who I am now. No matter where I live, no matter what time zone I’m in, when the umpire yells “Play ball!” on Opening Day, I’m home.
And that’s why I love this sport.
That’s why it still matters.
That’s why it always will.
P.S. GO RED SOX!!!!!!
Michael J. Hout is Editor-in-Chief of Liberty Affair. Based in Warsaw, Poland, he writes about politics, culture, and history. Follow his latest insights on X: @michaeljhout.
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