— — “I see great things in baseball. It’s our game — the American game. It will repair our losses and be a blessing to us.” — Walt Whitman

Baseball fans, see if you relate to any of this:

• You’ve carried a hot dog from the concession stand back to your seat in your baseball glove because you didn’t want to leave your mit behind.

• You feel no shame in cursing your five-hole hitter for being 0-3 in a game, then 10 seconds later saying “see, I told you he was due!” when he hits a home run.

• You’d rather have power at the corners than under the hood.

• Stealing isn’t evaluated as right or wrong, but how well it’s timed.

• You think “I lost it in the sun” is a viable excuse for, well, anything.

• When someone says “baseball is so boring” you think “well, so are you.”

Yes! It’s spring time! That means our precious game, our national pastime, the greatest sport ever invented, is just around the corner!

If you’re not a baseball fan, well sorry to say, the next 500 words just aren’t for you. Sorry. Tune in Wednesday. I’m sure I’ll be back to the normal topics.

But once a year I treat myself to this little indulgence, an extended love letter to my favorite game.

I try to explain baseball to non-baseball people, but they never seem to get it. They just tilt their head and look at me like a dog that doesn’t understand the command.

For me, it’s summed up best in the relationship between Crash Davis (Kevin Costner) and Ebby Calvin “Nuke” Laloosh (Tim Robbins) in “Bull Durham.” Crash is the world-weary veteran minor league catcher. Nuke is the young hot-shot pitcher who lacks the self-discipline to realize his fantastic talent.

Ebby Calvin LaLoosh: How come you don't like me?

Crash Davis: Because you don't respect yourself, which is your problem. But you don't respect the game, and that's my problem. You got a gift.

LaLoosh: I got a what?

Davis: You got a gift. When you were a baby, the Gods reached down and turned your right arm into a thunderbolt. You got a Hall-of-Fame arm, but you're pissing it away.

LaLoosh: I ain't pissing nothing away. I got a Porsche already; a 911 with a quadraphonic Blaupunkt.

Crash Davis: Christ, you don't need a quadraphonic Blaupunkt! What you need is a curve ball!

That’s baseball. For all the wonderful things in the world, there’s few greater than a well timed and well executed curve ball.

If you don’t understand that or can’t relate, I just can’t help you.

Just like I can’t help you if you don’t understand why, after waiting 20 years to catch a home run, a fan doesn’t bat an eye to throw the ball back if it was hit by the other team.

If you don’t look at a baseball field made of Astroturf and shake your head in sorrow, again, don’t look to me for help.

I understand why pitchers sometimes throw at hitters — and sometimes I don’t, but I get it anyway.

Like every baseball fan, I know well before the manager when it’s best to pull the starting pitcher.

And then there’s the thunder clap that is the home run. It is, by far, the best moment in all of sports. It’s spontaneous. It can come at any time. And when it does, it carries with it a jolt of electricity; inspiring awe as if just for a moment as the ball sails out of sight, the heavens open for a glimpse.

Yes, baseball is a religion of sorts. (There are 108 beads on a Catholic rosary and 108 stitches on a baseball. Coincidence?)

It is a game filled with the mysticism of a walk-off home run. It is filled with numbers — batting averages, earned run averages, RBIs and pitch counts. It has its holy names: Ruth, DiMaggio, Gibson and Aaron. These men were giants. They were gods of the diamond. And we baseball fans are their disciples.

We pack into one of 32 cathedrals to watch them play. But most of all, we wait all winter for those two most glorious words of all. The exalting prayer of all baseball prayers.

Play ball!

Eric DuVall is the managing editor of the Tonawanda News. His column appears Wednesdays and Sundays. Contact him at eric.duvall@tonawanda-news.com.