I’ve gone on long flights, changed planes, reached the destination in much shorter time. The cross-country part takes forever, but after reaching the hub, the second leg isn’t so far off.
Sometimes I’m on the second leg, or sitting in the layover airport, and think: There’s still the big fun to be had at the destination, but maybe I was supposed to make more of the initial San Jose-to-Chicago segment. Read that book, watched a movie, smacked that baby’s parents (though you never do, because they hated it more than you that their baby cried takeoff to touchdown).
The feeling is sort of the same at the end of February. It’s been four months getting here, then there’s a brief layover at the conference tournament, and finally, the NCAA tournament like it’s where we hoped we were going when we took off.
The post-season tournaments so heavily outweigh the regular season that it’s jarring at their ends. 25 games in four months, then bam bam, and it’s over. The madness of March is sort of like Christmas: you wait and anticipate and wait some more, then bam.
That’s something baseball has over all the other sports. The regular season is so long, corresponding with the longest days and sunniest weather. Long summer days are sometimes the best, and baseball is designed for sitting around, waiting for something to happen on the field.
Basketball happens when the days are depressingly short, and travel is most treacherous. But at the end, you’re wishing it hadn’t come and gone so quickly, and that your team had won more games or your pen written more words.
Then the kids you liked most graduate, and you never see them again, reminding you that the girls are always 18-to-22, and the only one getting older is you.