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Editor's Note: Jeff Pearlman is the bestselling author of eight New York Times books. His ninth, "Three Ring Circus: Shaq, Kobe, Phil and the Crazy Years of the Lakers Dynasty" comes out in September. He can be followed at @jeffpearlman. The opinions expressed in this comment are those of the author.
(CNN) - Yesterday afternoon, after walking my dog Norma for the 893rd time this month, I bumped into a snail sliding down a concrete block in front of my house.
I watched his slime-covered body curl up, then move, curl, then move, curl, then move. I was related to the little one. I named it Yinka ”by Yinka Dare, the late center of the New Jersey Nets. I told Yinka that it was very good; that with a few more hours and an explosion of adrenaline he could reach his destination. I believed in Yinka and I felt genuinely related to her success and happiness for life.
Suddenly, with the darkening of the sky and the arrival of the raindrops, I came out of my spell and stopped talking to the Yinka snail.
It was then that, next to the cold water, it hit me.
I need sports.
I really need sports. I need to see Mike Trout at the plate, going into a 157 km / h Gerrit Cole pitch. I need to see LeBron pulling Kawhi back. I need to see Islanders goalie Thomas Greiss looking at a shot by John Tavares.
I need balls, shots, kills, blocks, backhand shots, and forehand shots, and Tiger Woods birdie. I need Zamboni to make children laugh with the word "Zamboni". I need stupid pets and overly excited announcers and clever talk.
I want to pay $ 15 for two hot dogs and a Coke, then inevitably see the mustard splash on my shirt. I want the smell of freshly cut grass. I want the POP! of baseball hitting catcher's glove. I want to open a newspaper (yes, I still open newspapers) and check the classification.
I want to ridicule the Knicks and marvel at the Yankees and wonder if Steph Curry's triple on the buzzer will flutter through the rope again.
Hell, I even want the XFL.
For millions of people worldwide, the coronavirus pandemic has been a nightmare of nightmares. And, in the context of life and death, sport means nothing. I know that. You know it.
But truth be told, sports don't mean anything. They are an escape capsule of sadness; an opportunity for one to momentarily leave the gray of everyday life, and once again feel alive.
So when ESPN's Jeff Passan reported Monday that the National Baseball League (MBL) was considering a plan to restart the season in May (with games on empty stadiums in Arizona), I felt my tear ducts they started dancing.
That is not an exaggeration: I wanted to cry for the possibility of seeing once again a ball game.
Was it realistic? Uhm, probably not, and the MLB statement on Tuesday ("While we've discussed the idea of hosting games in one location as a potential option, we haven't settled on that option or developed a detailed plan ...") hardly inspires confidence. There are simply too many X factors for the major leagues to return next month. Too many risks.
But as I sit here, with the rain falling on my roof and Norma hiding under a blanket to escape the 894th hike, I hope that somehow, somehow, the summer boys will return.
To remind us that life can be what it once was.
Colorful.
