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

On Becoming Real

Some things get better with wear: old shoes, old friendships, and old books. Especially old books. A new volume arrives with crisp corners and a spine that hasn’t yet learned to bend. An old one has been somewhere. It has traveled through time in the hands of people who may no longer be around to tell us what they found inside. The copy of The Velveteen Rabbit (first published in 1922) on my desk is one of those books. My friend Don Hanley gave it to me. This late-1950s Doubleday edition features William Nicholson’s original illustrations and cream paper boards softened by age. Worn corners, a split spine, and colored tabs mark passages worth revisiting. Don didn’t hand me a keepsake. He gave me homework. When we talked about the book recently, he pointed me straight to the nursery conversation between a young rabbit and an old Skin Horse. The rabbit had noticed the mechanical toys around him—the ones with internal gears, bright paint, and stick-out handles that seem terribly impressiv...

Engineering Beef Stew

On July 2nd—Day Two of what I call The Great Un-Working —I sat down with my morning notebook to map out this new chapter of my life. One goal made the list in bold ink: Learn to Cook. At seventy, I was adding a skill most people master before they’re old enough to drive. Before you judge me, understand our household ecosystem. Lori is a phenomenal cook. For decades, she’s made meals so effortless and delicious that restaurants seem unsatisfying . My contribution to the culinary arts during my bachelor years–tuna mixed into Kraft Mac & Cheese. Let’s just say I wasn’t threatening her spot on the Food Network. But retirement changed the equation. I’m officially off the clock while Lori is still working. And I had a lovely thought: Wouldn’t it be wonderful if she came home after a long day to find dinner waiting? She loved the idea. Then came the question that haunted me for weeks: “What do you want to make?” I had no idea. Apparently, the first step in learning to cook is deciding wh...

The Gopher Problem and the High Powered Solution

Vacationing in Maine this week, just a short drive down the coast from Freeport, it is hard not to think about the outsized impact one frustrated outdoorsman had on the gear we all use today. Bad equipment can ruin a perfectly good day on the water or the trail, but it takes a special kind of vision to turn cold feet into a century-old empire. This is the story of the company we now know as L.L.Bean, but more importantly, it is a masterclass in integrity, learning from failure, and standing behind your work. In 1912, Leon Leonwood Bean faced a persistent problem: returning from expeditions in the Maine woods with cold, wet feet. Instead of complaining, he got creative. He had a local shoemaker stitch waterproof rubber soles onto the flexible leather uppers of a hunting boot. He called it the Maine Hunting Shoe and mailed a flyer promising perfect satisfaction. Then reality arrived. Ninety of his first 100 pairs failed when the rubber separated from the leather. Not an effective product...

When the Universe Calls in Sick

Take Thoreau’s Advice . . .  Four weeks ago, we stood on the shore of Walden Pond in Concord, Massachusetts, trying to channel Henry David Thoreau. Before leaving, I bought a pocket-sized copy of his essay, Walking . It’s slim because nineteenth-century transcendentalists didn’t have notifications interrupting their urge to wander. Thoreau’s counsel is disarmingly simple: step away from modern life's machinery and let the landscape recalibrate your perspective. Back home in Vista, I took that philosophy straight into the backyard. Thursday morning, ink-black, pristine skies arrived. I aimed my refractor at Jupiter, whose light has bathed Earth since mastodons roamed the plains. It felt cosmic. Profound . I left the telescope mounted overnight, convinced the heavens were on retainer for an encore at daybreak. Naturally, the universe called in sick. By sunrise, a wall of coastal fog had rolled in off the Pacific, sealing the valleys beneath a damp, gray Tupperware lid. After about th...