There’s a global pandemic and no baseball; no this is not an April Fool’s joke. It’s life as we know it in 2020. When Pink Floyd wrote “Wish You Were Here” they, unlike me, were not thinking of the New York Yankees and 2020 baseball:
So, so you think you can tell
Heaven from hell
Blue skies from pain
Can you tell a green field
From a cold steel rail?
Heaven, blue skies, green fields — a ballpark in spring that embraces fans in a pastoral joy unlike any other sport, now filled with nothing but hope for a season gone dark.
Yankee fans know what they’re missing, the inaugural season of Gerrit Cole in pinstripes. Opening Day was a non-starter as Yankee fans looked forward to seeing him in Camden Yards feasting on strikeouts against the Baltimore Orioles.
Did they get you to trade
Your heroes for ghosts?
Hot ashes for trees?
Hot air for a cool breeze?
Cold comfort for change?
Did you exchange
A walk on part in the war
For a lead role in a cage?
Could there be lyrics more suited for the times? Fans are caged in during this pandemic unable to partake of the joys of baseball. Our minds are haunted by Yankee Stadium where the only sound is the sound of the past rustling through the Monument Park.
Our heroes have scattered to the four winds and fans are at a loss for box scores, interviews, news. Even the beat writers have little to say that is new and interesting.
Dressed in jersey number 0, I celebrated Opening Day, alone, watching the last Spring Training game before the shutdown, believe me it was cold comfort.
I woke up this morning, April 1st, yearning for baseball, yearning for the life of the spirit to return to our occupations and our preoccupations and naturally thought of Pink Floyd singing of loss and desire.
“How I wish you were here, how I wish you were here..”