Spring Hope's Eternal

By Mo Egger
ESPN1530 and The Athletic

The last sporting event I attended before a global pandemic forced a months-long sports shutdown was a spring training game in Arizona between the Reds and Oakland Athletics on March 6, 2020. At that point I had heard news reports of something called the coronavirus but was mostly blissfully unaware of the prospects of a raging pandemic and returned to Cincinnati focused on little else but a fast-approaching baseball season and the high hopes so many of us had for the local team.

Within a week, of course, Opening Day had been postponed, every pro and college sports team had ceased activities and fans were left grappling with both loads of free time usually spent watching games and the sobering uncertainty of not knowing when we would be allowed back inside a ballpark or an arena.

And for me, that mostly meaningless Cactus League exhibition suddenly became an event worth savoring.

I love baseball, in large part because of the daily cadence of the season and the every-game-matters-but-not-too-much rhythm of a schedule that plays out nearly every day for six months. But ever since I started making annual trips to spring training in Arizona in 2012, the best part of the season, at least for me, is the part that involves games that do not matter in the standings.

A spring training trip has always been the dangling carrot that has gotten me through the cold and darkness of winter, and the reward for enduring my least favorite months. It is what I start thinking about within seconds of the season’s final out, and those Cactus League ballparks are where my mind drifts toward whenever I’m stuck shoveling snow or trudging along outside in freezing temperatures.

It may seem silly that I get such enjoyment from paying money to travel across the country to watch games that don’t count and innings filled by players whose identities are often anonymous, but much about being a sports fan defies being rational to begin with, and as much as I love the game, baseball can be a sports best consumed when the quality of the time you’re having is unrelated to the game’s outcome.  A Cactus League game isn’t an ideal setting for a fan obsessing over a pitcher’s arm slot or one crunching a hitter’s weighted on-base average. 

It is, however, the perfect backdrop for a reacquaintance with sunshine and the juxtaposition of a cold beer against warmer temperatures and a chance to spend a lazy afternoon watching something resembling big league ball for something not resembling big league prices. 

And it’s a phenomenal setting to enjoy someone else’s good company.

There is an infinite list of things that have absolutely sucked about the pandemic, but somewhere relatively high on the list is how it robbed us of things to look forward to. Events. Vacations. Reunions. Family gatherings. Annual rites of passage. I’ve gotten used to what’s often referred to “the new normal,” even if I struggle with how permanent that might be, but what’s never not jarring is having the rug pulled out from beneath whenever the next thing gets postponed, or canceled, or maybe worst of all, not even scheduled. To combat the un-ending sense of letdown that comes with every cancelation or expected event not happening, I’ve developed a defense mechanism of sorts that involves looking forward to nothing.

It has been an absolutely miserable and joy-sucking way to live, far and away not the worst thing anyone has had to deal with over the last 12 months, but still depressing and soul-crushing nonetheless. We have all had to make adjustments to how we go through daily life, but the one that’s taken the most getting used to is not having anymore carrots dangling in front of me.

I resigned myself to not having a spring training trip to look forward well before last summer even ended, and I spent this past winter doing what I could do avoid letting my mind drift toward the dread I’d start to feel whenever I thought of what it would feel like when early March arrived, and I’d not be in Arizona. Was I dealing with the ultimate in first world problems? Absolutely. Did I often remind myself of how spoiled I am? Definitely. Was being cognizant of the fact that no one is entitled to go watch baseball game in warm weather every March make life any less bearable? If you are still reading, I think you know the answer.

There have been glimmers of hope worth clinging to in recent weeks. Vaccinations. The extension and ultimately, the elimination of curfews. News of fans being allowed at games this spring. A sense that something resembling the life the way we used to know it could one day again become reality.

And in late February, the announcement that spring training games would happen with fans in the stands.

There have been very few decisions in my life made without at least some trepidation, but this one was easy and instant. Even if I went by myself, regardless of what protocols and restrictions were implemented, I was making my annual sojourn out west.

I ended up going to Arizona for three days, taking in four games in four different ballparks during my stay. I saw the Reds play the Rockies at Salt River Fields at Talking Stick, which allowed me to cross off the one remaining park I hadn’t yet been to. It is a nice, clean facility that lacks any defining feature other than a field, sunshine and beer taps, which in spring training is all that’s needed.

I watched the Cubs play the A’s at Sloan Park in Mesa, where the mask police were a little too zealous, if at least well-intended. I’m not anti-mask, but I’m very much against someone hovering over my shoulder to determine whether or not I’m actively eating or drinking.

The Reds hosted the Dodgers for a night game in Goodyear on a night that was cooler than I’d bargained and in which the fans of the reigning world champs outnumbered those of us there in support of the home team. Goodyear Ballpark is a nice place surrounded by very little else, but when you’ve got a ballgame and a cold one, what else do you need?

My final game was at Hohokam Park, an older facility that’s gotten a slight facelift, home of the A’s, who entertained the Brewers. It was where I saw the last pre-pandemic sporting event a year ago, unintentionally allowing me to complete a circle of sorts. 

Note that I did not share the results of the games, not because they’re not important – which they aren’t – but because I don’t recall what they were. Which teams won and lost didn’t matter. The fact that I was in attendance really made me the victor. 

There were reminders that things aren’t completely where any of us want them to be like of course, masks. There were fewer fans in attendance than usual, tight restrictions on how many people can be grouped together, and more than a handful of ballpark amenities not in use.

But beggars can’t be choosers, as they say, and a fan who spent a long winter simply hoping to see a meaningless ballgame in the desert sun can’t be picky about what he can and can’t do when he’s finally allowed to do what he loves most.

I returned to Cincinnati with only a slight sunburn, excitement for the coming season, and an at least slightly altered outlook on life. No, the pandemic is not over. 

But the days of me refusing to look forward to things are now a thing of the past.