Skip to main content

Opening Day Magic 2026 . . .

It’s back. Baseball—yes, baseball! If you’re someone who finds themselves inexplicably drawn to this peculiar ritual, let’s be honest with each other: it’s a bit odd, right? I mean, 162 games. That’s a lot of hot dogs, a lot of standing around, and a lot of grown men in oddly tailored trousers spitting with remarkable precision.

And yet, here we are, poised on the precipice of another season. Thursday, March 26, 2026, to be precise—Opening Day.

It’s a curious thing, this Opening Day. You walk into a stadium, or turn on the TV, and suddenly, everyone is infected with a highly contagious strain of . . . Optimism. It’s a spectacular form of collective amnesia. All of last year’s fumbles, the endless losing streaks, the existential dread of watching your bullpen implode in the eighth inning—poof. Gone. It’s entirely replaced by a wide-eyed, childlike belief that this year, finally, the baseball gods will smile upon us.

The Cycle of Hope and Despair

As a Cubs fan, I know this cycle intimately; it’s practically my resting heart rate. Of course, we’ve seen the mountaintop. Back in 2016, we experienced a moment so improbable it still feels like a beautiful, tension-induced fever dream. But let’s be real—that was a decade ago. Mostly, being a Cubs fan is a long, winding road paved with what we politely call “character-building” experiences.

Still, on Thursday morning, we start with the exact same record as the reigning World Series champions. Zero and zero. Isn’t that something? A grand, democratic reset before the inevitable reality check.

A Pre-Season “Pilgrimage”

Just this week, I embarked on my annual pre-season pilgrimage. Only, instead of braving the sprawling concrete and questionable parking logistics of Angel Stadium (The Big A) in Anaheim, my journey consisted of a rigorous trek to the living room. I fired up MLB.TV to catch an exhibition game between the Dodgers and the Angels from the safety of my La-Z-Boy.

And astonishingly, it was absolutely delightful. The air might not have been thick with the aroma of overpriced stadium garlic fries, but the almost primal crack of a bat meeting a ball still sounded perfect through the TV speakers. I was actually enjoying myself, completely stress-free, with no traffic jams on the 5 freeway. Even though, let’s be clear, it was a practice game—a comfortably televised rehearsal for the actual agony to come.

Opening Day, you see, is more than just a game. It’s a pilgrimage. A return to the sacred grounds where grown men chase a leather sphere with the fervor of medieval knights storming the castle. Every single team starts with the same dream of playing in October. We have 162 opportunities for . . . well, who knows? Miracles? Meltdowns? Probably a healthy dose of both.

Where Will You Be Watching?

So, fellow baseball fans of Southern California, with our sprawling freeways and our stubborn love of the game, where will you be watching the 2026 season unfold?

  • Will you brave the traffic for Dodger Stadium, that expansive, welcoming bowl nestled into the Chavez Ravine?

  • Are you heading down to Petco Park to catch the Padres?

  • Or maybe you’ll be at the crossroads of the 57 and the 5 at Angel Stadium?

If you’re like me, you will probably be comfortably settled in front of MLB.TV, happily squinting at a flat screen, trying to catch all the intricate details of a Cubs’ mid-game collapse from the safety of the living room.

Everyone has their team. What excites you this year? What magical moments are you looking forward to? Next time you’re at a Southern California game, look for a Cubs fan cheering from afar. That might be me.
“Go, Cubs, Go, Cubs, Go! Hey Chicago, what do you say? The Cubs are gonna win today.”

I’m Patrick Ball. Stay curious, brace yourselves for the 162-game grind, and enjoy the season! See you in the next episode.

Comments

Most Popular of All Time

Sunflowers, French Steel, and the Yellow Jersey

Watching Le Tour de France this year, I found myself transported back to August 1983 as the Peloton in Stage 10, Bastille Day, flowed through the French countryside like a brightly colored ribbon. I was in my twenties, visiting family in the Charente-Maritime region of France, completely obsessed with bicycle racing—and convinced I was much stronger than I was. My connection to cycling—and to France—runs deep. I was born in France, and my very first real road bike, at age fifteen, was a Mercier . To me, it wasn’t just a bicycle; it was a work of art made from beautiful French steel. I rode that bike for miles, through high school, into college, and until the day someone decided they needed it more than I did. I hope they at least appreciated the craftsmanship. Its untimely disappearance led me to a Schwinn Voyageur, and later, when I started racing around Illinois, to a Raleigh Competition . But during that summer of ’83, while staying with my Uncle Jean Paul in Lagord, just north of L...

Rediscovering the Magic of Summer . . .

Summer mornings, especially on a holiday weekend, have a special magic. The air is cool, the world quiet, and the day full of possibilities. This July 4th weekend, Lori and I decided to capture a bit of that magic by beating the holiday traffic with an early morning bicycle ride. We went through our usual pre-flight checklist: Stretched out the morning stiffness. Filled the water bottles. Strapped on the helmets. Checked the tires. Three tires passed inspection. The fourth had apparently declared independence. The rear tire on my e-bike was flatter than a Kansas highway. “Well, it looks like we’re not riding today,” Lori said, with the calm acceptance of someone who had already mentally promoted coffee to the day’s main event. “Why not?” I replied. “I’ll ride my old bike.” She gave me that look —the one that safely translates as, "Are you sure about this? " “Absolutely,” I said. “Why not?” I dragged the bike stand out and surveyed my options. One glance at the aggressive gear...

What an E-Bike Can't Do

In this episode, a return to the struggle. There comes a point in life when many people decide they've earned a machine to do the hard work for them. Some celebrate retirement with a bright red Corvette—the old ads called it "The American Dream Machine." Others opt for a Harley-Davidson, because apparently retirement isn't official until you've purchased enough chrome to be visible from space. Me? I bought a bicycle. Not an e-bike. Not one with enough battery power to serve as its own charging station. Just a bicycle. People have asked me why. Bicycles have always kept me young. The exercise is good for the body, and the quiet is good for the mind. Unlike a sports car, nobody expects you to explain why a retired guy suddenly needs to go from zero to sixty in four seconds. Before the e-bike crowd starts sharpening their keyboards, let me confess something: there were several moments on today's ride when I would've gladly accepted a small electric motor—mayb...

Morning Coffee

In this episode, Morning Coffee . . . Now, I’m not saying everyone needs coffee. Some folks get by just fine on, I don’t know, sunlight and positive thinking. Me? I’m pretty sure I started drinking the stuff sometime around the Reagan administration. Reading John Gierach’s "Ode to Campfire Coffee" in Trout Bum (a book that should be required reading for anyone who sees sleeping on the ground as recreation) got me thinking about how we’ve managed to complicate something as fundamentally simple as boiling water and adding grounds. Taste, you say? Look, black coffee is an acquired taste, like tequila or cilantro. I just don’t get it. Gierach, bless his heart, mostly drinks his java streamside, probably while wearing wool socks and waders and contemplating the mysteries of the universe. As for me? My outdoor coffee experience is a bit different. Picture this: the High Sierra, where campfires are banned (to avoid agitating Smoky Bear), and I’m huddled over a Whisperlite , coax...