So what if it breaks your heart?

Baseball pleases you, but teases you, drawing you in with its seductive rhythm, its green and blue hues, giving you hope before breaking your heart.

Such it was at Lindsey Nelson Stadium tonight as the University of Tennessee Volunteers came back from a two-run deficit in the ninth to tie Middle Tennessee State at 4, only to lose 5-4 in the 10th.

Ah, well. At least the weather was nice.

Beautiful, in fact. Spring is here, at least for now, and I've caught its fever. Go away, winter. You're not wanted anymore.

I kept score, chatting with my friend Jim in Section C. Saw cousin Seth Burnett. Jenn joined me later. Baseball is my balm. It soothes the soul.

Have I ever told you that I hate the song "Rocky Top"? I hate it. It's not our fight song anyway (see "Down the Field" for further information) and it jars the senses when followed by "Take Me Out to the Ballgame" during the familiar seventh-inning stretch.

The national game returns each year, like an old friend, to keep you company for six months or so. I love it. Oh, how I love it so.

So what if it breaks your heart?

Can't sleep again, naturally

Here it is 1 a.m. and I can't get to sleep.

No surprise there, huh? I'm watching reruns of "Hawaii 5-0." Love those old police shows. It helps me relax. Plus, it has plenty of pretty scenery, Hawaiian locales, Jack Lord's immovable hair, and native girls.

I would like to visit our 50th state. Five-0 and Thomas Magnum helped fan the fire. As it is, I travel through television, a James Michener book, native fiction somebody recommended.

Enjoyed the afternoon. The sun came out and it was quite nice. Took in a UT baseball game, kept score, talked to folks around me. Our national game always soothes my soul. Works better than any mood stabilizer.

Now it's freezing cold, raining. Forecast calls for snow. Go figure. It's East Tennessee.

Guess that's another reason I'm watching 5-0. Makes me think warm thoughts.

A gift in the mail

My baseball season tickets arrived in the mail yesterday.

It is my one splurge; it is my passion. I love the game. I love sitting in Section C at Lindsey Nelson Stadium, in the springtime sun of a Sunday afternoon, watching the shadows stretch across the field.

I love keeping score. I love watching the girls retrieve the bats. I love the symmetry of it -- three strikes, three outs, three times three innings.

I have told you how much I need an escape to stay sane. Our national game is just that.

And it's funny. As my enthusiasm has waned for the major leagues, I have come to adore the minor leagues and college baseball. I cover high school baseball, too. I told somebody once that the only thing I want named after me when I am gone is the press box at the Halls High baseball field.

If I could wave a magic wand and do whatever I wanted, I would steal Roger Angell's life -- at least part of it. William Shawn sent him to spring training one season in the early 1960s and said, "Write about what you see." Thus Angell has done in the New Yorker, on and off, for the last 40-some years.

I often think that the modern day sportswriter, feeling the pressure of working a daily beat, misses the story. They have to cover the game unfolding on the field. How many times Chipper Jones hits a home run. How many strikeouts Tim Hudson racked up in his last outing. And so forth.

I once watched Herman the usher dance and yell in the section in which I was sitting, somewhere along the third base line, at Turner Field. I had the story written before I returned to the keyboard. The Braves lost. And yet Herman smiled.

One opening day, I watched the sky turn from peaceful azure to brilliant pink. Seventy-three degrees. "Sweet Caroline" on the loudspeaker and an empty seat next to mine. I thought of a girl, big brown eyes and dark hair, and wished she were sitting to my left. These are the moments I remember.

John Updike wrote the best piece ever composed on baseball, "Hub Fans Bid Kid Adieu." Guess how? The subject of an interview stood him up. So, he went to Fenway Park on an impulse, bought a ticket, sat in the stands, and wrote about Ted Williams' last at-bat. It was quite good.

Angell is a master, too. Oh, and W.P. Kinsella, a graduate of the Iowa Writers' Workshop (I'm still thinking about submitting a piece -- just to see if I can get accepted), wrote a magical little novel, "Shoeless Joe," that became a magical little film, "Field of Dreams."

Yes, I am sitting here in my living room, watching snow melt from the patio table, dreaming of spring. I can smell the peanuts and Cracker Jack, I can see the shadows stretch across the field, I can see that fellow in Section C, Row 4, Seat 3, losing himself in the national game.

Six more weeks of winter? Maybe. For me, though, it will arrive on Feb. 20.

Seventy-two days and counting...

Yes, folks, the countdown has begun.

Why, you may ask? Well, my first love will return to me in 72 days.

No, it's not that dark-haired little girl with the big blue eyes that broke my heart so many years ago. It's the national game, my favorite pastime, that delicious little obsession called baseball.

I know what you're thinking. "You're crazy, man. Baseball is a spring sport. Why are you talking about it at Christmastime?"

Well, friends, that's just the way I roll, as the youngsters say.

Tell you what made me think about it, in all seriousness. Monday night I opened the mailbox to find my UT baseball season ticket application.

"Yes!" I said to myself. "Feb. 22 isn't that far away. I can make it until then."

My cousin Jordan said it best at dinner the other night.

"I hate the next few months because you can't watch baseball. I mean, I love football, but it's not the same."

No, it isn't, Jordan. But, the little orange ticket application stirred the soul just a bit. Waiting 72 more days won't be so bad.

And, if it is, I'll just pull out that Ken Burns documentary and bide my time.

All I want for Christmas is three strikes, three outs and three times three innings of play.

Autumn in spring...

So it's late afternoon on a Saturday, and I'm sitting in the Ramsey's Restaurant back room, drinking a sweet tea, watching the Cubs and the Diamondbacks on the corner TV. Baseball seems tailor-made for a lazy day. Its pace, its rhythms -- it all fits together.

Today is a day for endings. Barring unexpectedly good weather tomorrow, I won't make it back to UT for the season finale. So, today's 5-2 loss to Kentucky was most likely all she wrote for another year.

The Vols got our hopes up in the home half of the 9th with two last-minute home runs. But, as usual during this dreadful losing streak, it was all for naught, too little, too late.

I said good-bye to Carol, her sister Kay and to Bob, my friends in Section C. I looked around for usher Jim, but he'd disappeared. We don't know if we'll be together again next year. New construction at Lindsey Nelson Stadium may break us all up. We'll see.

Tennessee has a game tomorrow (weather permitting) and one last SEC series at South Carolina. But it doesn't look like they'll have to worry about packing for Hoover and the SEC tournament. The fond optimism that followed early, unexpected wins gave way to the realization that this team just isn't very good.

Oh, well. They're young. They need pitching. Badly.

Meanwhile, I'll have the Braves and the Tigers to keep me busy this summer, with the occasional Dodgers' and minor league games thrown in here and there.

Funny thing, though. It felt a little like September this afternoon on Rocky Top. I took one last look around the field, winked at my favorite bat girl and drove off toward the Strip, closing the books on the orange-tinted '08 version of the greatest game of them all.