THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Sunday, March 5, 1995 TAG: 9503020191
SECTION: CAROLINA COAST PAGE: 13 EDITION: FINAL
COLUMN: Coastwise
SOURCE: Ford Reid
LENGTH: Medium: 61 lines
In years past, this weekend would have been a banner one for me.
The first weekend in March meant the season's first baseball games on television, the beginning of nearly eight months of comfortable companionship.
Big league baseball was like an old friend, always there when you needed a diversion.
One of my favorite things this month was to do a little futile surf fishing on a Saturday morning, freezing my tail in the process, then spend the afternoon warm and cozy in front of the television watching the boys of spring trying to become the boys of summer.
Sure, the games in March were not the real thing. They did not count for much and nobody, except the rookie trying to make the team, took them very seriously. But they were important as a harbinger of what was to come.
People who did not start watching the games until opening day missed the point.
As the ball player's body needs stretching and warming up before the game begins, the fan's mind and senses needed some preparation, too.
The spring training games from Florida and Arizona provided the tune up that the fan needed before he faced the important games of April.
But this year, who knows? The strike continues, as the owners and players line up facing each other, each group shouting ``My greed's greater than your greed!''
It has been a long time since I harbored illusions about professional sports. It is business, entertainment. But just as you accept your friends, warts and all, I accepted baseball despite its prima donna players and carping owners.
According to the television listings, there will be at least one exhibition game on cable this weekend.
But according to the newspapers, those guys who take the field in Yankee pinstripes and the blue and orange of the Mets will be plumbers, school teachers and insurance salesmen, not big league ball players.
Late last summer, when the strike began, I felt liberated from a life-long addiction. No longer would I waste hour after hour watching meaningless games that I didn't even care about. No longer would I neglect or ignore more important endeavors while I was enthralled by a third-rate pitcher throwing to a second-rate batter in a 15-2 blowout.
I thanked the owners and players for their avarice. I praised them for unwittingly leading me to salvation.
But now, as spring approaches, I feel a deep melancholy because I know that it will never be the same again. Because now, baseball is like a friend who has lied to you one too many times. You might still try to be friendly with him, but you can never trust him again.
I feel a great loss. I will get over it, but spring will be different now.
I don't know who to blame, so I blame all of them.
But I do know what to say. To quote Brooklyn fans of four decades ago, ``We was robbed!'' by CNB