I ordered paper tickets for the Cardinals’ home-opener this year because I wanted the keepsake. I’m sentimental that way. I’d been to one of St. Louis’ celebratory baseball holidays before, way back in 1989, a 9-4 loss to the Mets at Busch Stadium II. But my wife hadn’t. I wanted her to see it, to experience it, the Clydesdales and the sea of red. Damn those electronic tickets. I wanted the real thing.
The tickets are in my desk drawer, in an envelope, a less-than-minor tragedy in a spring of catastrophic events. People are sick. People are dying. It’s hard to sincerely complain.
This afternoon I’ll pull out the tickets, again, and dream of what today was supposed to be.