Base-ball!

Grass.

Dirt.

Beech-nut.

Liniment.

3-fingered hurlers.

Shoeless choppers.

Uncle Charlie.

Yes, folks—at long last Doubleday’s cow pasture epiphany has returned to our fair university after a quadragenarian slumber and I couldn’t be more excited if Bonehead Merkle were playing first base (I checked—he’s not).

Tomorrow evening, in the grand state of Texas, our blue and orange clad mashers will take to the diamond for a small rhubarb against the Longhorns—setting off a new era of brushbacks and Bronx cheers for our fair city. It’s been a long time coming for long-suffering hardball fanatics, who’ve had to whet their collective appetites on bush league brush ups and something called “soft-ball” (I personally believe that the ball should still be to Doubleday’s specifications—”a hard spheroid roughly the size of a medium McIntosh apple”). Our wait is finally over!

One more sleep until the sweetest music of all—chin music—is heard again coming through our Westinghouse. One more day until cutters, closers, and cans of corn. One more night until our own Tinkers, Everses, and Chances emerge from anonymity to win the day. Sure, I’d have liked more Dutch on the team, as well as more waxed mustaches and Burnside facial coverings but the skipper has a formidable Dutch-sounding surname—I’m sure he’s taught them the finer points of the Baltimore Chop.

Without the weight of expectation, our young squad will be able to play the fine game as it was meant to be played—partially drunk and nursing the dropfoot you picked up in the Great War. I cannot wait for the cacophony of bat-cracks and broken shins (Tyrus Cobb was a practitioner of this forgotten artform). I’ve pinched myself several times (on my good leg). It’s really happening! Baseball is back!

Condolences once again to our grapplers.

This article has been brought to you by Dr. Williams’ Pink Pills for Pale People—ask for it by name!