Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright. The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light.
And somewhere men are laughing and somewhere people shout. But there is no joy in Washington; mighty baseball has struck out. Again.
Twelve more months have passed. They have produced nothing more than another spring, another season, another year of frustration.
In most major cities in this land, baseball fans look forward to Opening Day a full stop and two spare In Washington, there is nothing to look forward to and nothing to savor except an occasional essay by somebody like George F. Will, who is obviously a man of superior taste and intelligence.
In his Sunday column, Will called baseball "a fine art . . . the sport most satisfying to the mind." It is all of that and more. For our area's baseball lovers, baseball is also an unfaithful seductress who comes and goes - with never a sign of remorse over the broken hearts she has left in her wake.
In happier times, when we came home after watching the opening game we'd say, "Well it's almost time to remove the snow tires," for we knew that April 15 was just around the corner. Now, with no baseball at RFK and therefore no snow tire reminder, I may run on my snow treads all summer. And why not? In my heart, the snows of winter will never melt until we get a team of our own again.