I’m one of those kids who was a baseball fan almost from earliest memory. Growing up in the hills of eastern Kentucky, I was entranced by the Cincinnati Reds, which serious fans know became the first professional team in 1869. When I was about twelve I first encountered the suspicion about not mentioning the no-hitter because it would jinx the pitcher, in this case my favorite Red Jim Maloney.

In the event our faith was rewarded and Jim pitched the no-hitter. In a fan letter I told him how happy I was for him. He replied with a postcard, the front an autographed photo, the back a “thanks for your letter” kind of deal, and I was hooked.

So when I see that the traditional honor of playing the first game of the season, till now accorded to the Reds (in the NL), has been handed over to another team, I’m already meditating on the Pure White Light of Stupidity, and the obvious inappropriateness of all things new. Then I see who actually gets to play the first game: the Senators! Or Nationals, or whatever they’re called. Naturally.

And the rightful players of the first game don’t start till this afternoon, in a game featuring Diamondbacks Cy Young award-winning pitcher Brandon Webb, who grew up in the same town that spit me out, against Aaron Harang, my favorite NL pitcher over the past three years, a guy who by all rights should have a Cy Young of his own by now.

Apropos of nothing, I was in O’Hare airport twice in the last week and found that it’s legal to carry beer up to the gate if it’s in one plastic cup per person. You have to dump it before you get on the plane, but up to then you’re cool with your Heileman’s or Sam Adams. Quite civilized, I thought.