Early April

A poem, altered from how it originally appeared last year on The Valpope's Pulpit.

I love the smell of the stadium, the freshly cut grass and the distinct conspiracy of aromas generated in the jubilant concourses.

I love the idea of the hot dog from the corner vendor, whisked from the condiments table into the open air of the stadium seating bowl.

I love the cup holders on the back of the seats, and the sudden comfort of being in that seat, among thousands, nestled inside the view that awaits you.

I do not like sour kraut on my hot dog. I also do not like mustard.

I love the sounds.

Not just the crack of the bat or the rush of fans after a big home run.

I love the silence, the moment of anticipation as a left fielder throws his body at the ball, those moments when nobody is entirely sure if the ball has found leather or not.

I love the sound of the hysterical vendor -- every damn stadium has one -- as he or she performs and sells simultaneously.

I love the faint echoes of the public address announcer.

I love the sound of a liner meeting a glove. I do not love the sound of a Brewer swearing as he walks back to the dugout following a K. I also do not like the sound of Cubs fans, in general.

I love the air. Not yet warm enough to be summer but still sunshiny enough to call it great weather.

I love how even though it sometimes isn't great weather, it feels like it anyway with the baseball game in front of you.

I love the scoreboard. Sharp, bright, large images of player headshots or stats or facts, conspiring neatly with the deep, distinct voice that announces the arrival of your favorite player to home plate. I love the between-game trivia and the out-of-town scoreboard. I love the graphics and the images, sometimes footage of games long ago. I love that I know exactly this game's attendance and I'm going to say so loudly so everyone in section 216 knows it.

I love the walk up to the park, the awe it inspires in its immensity before you draw inside, through the turnstile and into the expanse before you.

I love the inability to gauge where a fly ball is really going to land from the upper deck. I love the brief sense of simultaneous panic and thrill that comes with "oh my god, the ball is coming right for us" as you sit in the outfield bleachers. I love the rising tide of murmering as those around you realize a foul ball is headed your direction. I hate that guy who lunged on top of three elderly nuns to get the ball. Bastard.

I love the music you distantly hear when you enter, and the first glimpse of the field as you head into the seating bowl and see, just for a moment between those people in front of you, a groudskeeper tending to the base line before the full picture comes into view.

I do not like the rain that permeates the Miller Park roof. I also do not like that painful squealing that comes as a result of the roof closing. And also, less hip-hop.

I love the escalator ride to the second deck.

I love the kids, those stupid, awful, ketchup-on-their-shirt children, nonetheless entirely endearing when they ask a stupid question about baseball with complete ardor and fascination. Is that man (guy in a jersey buying beer) on the team? How many foul balls will we catch today? No, Timmy, it's MY LUNCHBOX (clinging to the cheesy-ass promotion giveaway at the door).

I love the old people, barely able to move, adorned in Brewers gear with smiles on their faces. I love that they probably know more about Brewers baseball than I ever will. They were here for the good times, the bad times, the historical times ... and even when it isn't convenient and time has passed them by, I love how they wouldn't even THINK of missing a game.

Not this game.

I do not love the guy who will give me a t-shirt if I sign up for a credit card. Back off, bitch.

I love the posters of the players around the yard. I love the ceremonial first pitch. As long as it is expedient, I love the National Anthem. I love Roll out the Barrel. I love Kiss Cam.

I love that sometime in this season, we'll never know when, some terrible eighth-string player is going to take an All-Star closer deep to win a game in 11 innings.

I love how some time this season, we'll never know when, some pitcher is going to flirt with a no-hitter for six innings.

I love how some time this season, you'll never know when, you will see something that you can honestly say you haven't seen before.

I do not love the fact that sometime this season, you never know when, the Brewers will break out of their 0-for-50 streak with runners in scoring position.

And god, do I love the game. I love the bases-loaded, two outs. I love the triple. The triple play. The squeeze play. The home run -- the one that you know right away is gone. And the one that sneaks over the wall, just barely.

I love getting out of a jam. I love five hits to start an inning. I love the first out of the game and the last out of the game. Well, usually I don't like the last out of the game. Roughly 20 percent of the time, I do.

I love it when the radio critics are proven wrong.

May your team have a great season. Except when they're playing my team. And may your starting pitchers not ALL be on the DL. And my your general manager figure some things out along the way. And may the season never be too long, amen.