Major League Baseball’s Opening Day is unequivocally the greatest day of the year.

I could expound on how Opening Day is a rite of spring that leads us out of the darkness of winter, that it imbues every fan with an optimism that this is THE year, how it connects generations within families, perhaps I laboriously describe the history of the game and its place in the story of America, or how baseball is a complicated dance between flashes of occasional success and routine failure. I’m not going to do that.

Here’s What I Love About Baseball:

The Jeter jump throw from deep in the hole.

A hot dog with mustard and sauerkraut washed down with a lukewarm cup of suds in 90 degrees heat. Don’t be a rookie and put the mustard on the kraut. Slap down the mustard first and then pile on the kraut. Part of the ballpark experience is having mustard glued to your cheek or plastered to the side of your mouth for an inning or two. Hopefully, a concerned friend will politely point out that you resemble a clown and you’ll take the necessary steps to remedy the situation. (At Fenway, you’ll have to substitute chopped onions for kraut. New Englanders don’t appreciate that sauerkraut is a delicacy. )

Ditching work and hitting a weekday afternoon matinee.

The athletic colossus that is Shohei Ohtani.

Stopping by the side of the road to watch an inning of a Little League game.

The crack of the bat.

The smell of a well-oiled and cared for mitt. (Preferably Rawlings.)

Watching an afternoon Cubs game and the production crew highlighting the attractive women in attendance. They really do their homework in Chicago.

Listening to the New York Mets broadcast trio of Gary Cohen, Keith Hernandez and Ron Darling. (Oh, how I have missed you.)

Fantasizing about the possibility of catching a foul ball. (I’ve done it once off the bat of Bobby Meacham. That brief moment in time symbolizes everything crazy and sometimes charming about growing up as a Sheridan.)

An around the horn 5-4-3 double play.

The insanity and genius of Billy Martin.

The diminutive Jose Altuve putting every last molecule of his being into a violent attempt to destroy a baseball.

The unexpected success of Nasty Nestor Cortes and his start/stop/twist/pause/rope-a-dope impersonation of El Tiante.

The feel of a bat in my hands.

The feel of a baseball in my finger tips.

Dirt. Dirt on the uni. Dirt in your spikes. Dirt in your hair. Dirt down the front of your baseball pants from a headfirst slide. GLORIOUS DIRT.

The warrior that is J.T. Realmuto.

The throwback nature of Jeff McNeil.

Bull Durham

Heading to the big ball orchard with a friend to take in a game. The conversation, the laughs, sharing a meal together — reconnecting with each other. Nothing beats it.

Bo Bichette’s flow.

Rollie Fingers’ moustache.

The homicidal stare of Goose Gossage.

The All-American dysfunction of my childhood hero Pete Rose.

YAZ

The athletic grace of Mookie Betts.

The savage beauty of the stolen base.

A bazooka throw launched from deep in right field to erase the runner at third base.

The concept of Javy “El Mago” Baez.

The understated craftiness and beauty of Anders Gimenez’s game.

A FILTHY slider.

Watching a late night game from the West Coast, where the light from your tv demonstrates to the rest of the neighborhood that you’re not a casual fan.

Jacob deGrom = Baseball God