The crack of a wooden bat shatters winter’s icy silence. Across the country, all players finally exit the off-season and prepare to show off all the hard work they put in during the long fall and winter. Baseball season is finally here.

Fans flood through the stands with hearts full of renewed happiness. They inhale the familiar smell of all the fresh foods in the concession stands. On the mound, pitchers stare down hitters, waiting for that first “play ball” from the guy dressed in blue. Every team starts with a clean slate, a zero-zero record, and the dream of finally beating the team in the playoffs that they always lose too.

This game moves slowly in an age of instant gratification. Baseball requires deep attention because at any moment a huge event could just happen. We watch the intricate chess match between the dugout and the diamond, a tradition passed from parents to children over century old wooden seats. We remember the summer nights, the radio broadcasts humming on the porch, and playing catch with dad before the sun disappears.

Critics often call the sport too slow. They miss the point. Baseball offers a sanctuary from the pace of modern life. It follows the sun, not a clock. The drama builds in the quiet moments between pitches, the adjustment of a batting glove, the dirt kicked off a cleat, the tension of a full count with the bases loaded. Nowadays the rules are being changed in attempt to make the game quicker.

The sun shines brighter on Opening Day. It marks the true arrival of spring, regardless of the temperature outside. We trade heavy coats for jerseys and hats with the huge “W” logo. People find their seats, balance their hot dogs, and lean into the collective roar of the crowd. Forget the calendar, spring truly starts when the umpire says his first “play ball” of the year.