I have four words for everybody:

The Madness is over.

And it's about time.

Don't get me wrong. I like college basketball. I had my pool done just like everyone else, and I had it all fall to pieces just like always. But I hate all the unnecessary hoopla and crap that goes along with the tourney.

Luckily, I have found my salvation. Every spring, something happens that makes me glad that I have hung on through the bleak, boring, bland tournament craziness, and today it begins again. (Actually it began last night, but that was just to make ESPN some more money.)

Welcome to Opening Day, 1994.

I remember my first major league baseball game. It was late in the 1982 season, and my hometown Orioles were challenging Milwaukee for the American League East crown. The Big Brew Crew, riding the bats of Robin Yount, Paul Molitor, Phil Garner and Cecil Cooper, arrived in town and my father got four tickets, so that we could go with my best friend and his father.

I don't remember exactly what happened in the game or how it ended, but after I watched Field of Dreams for the first time, I flashed back to the memories of Memorial Stadium and that beautiful August afternoon.

After I saw that glorious movie, I was rummaging around my house, and I found the old program from that game. My father taught me how to keep score, and the ketchup stain was still visible on page 39 from the hot dogs we got in the sixth inning.

That is what baseball is about. It's not about million-dollar salaries, commercial endorsements, shoe contracts or image enhancement. That's not what baseball is about.

Baseball is about tradition. Baseball is about the little leagues, little kids playing on the junior high fields, imagining that they are their heroes. They go into the hole to get that hard grounder just like Cal would do, they make the stretch and dig the ball out of the dirt just like Don does, they chase down that long fly just like Kirby would.

It's about the 11 year-old Barry Bonds at the plate, facing his old nemesis (and the school bully) on the mound, dropping down in the count 0-and-2. He reaches deep inside of him, asking himself what would Barry do in this situation, and tattooing that apple over the shed in right field, which in this league signifies an automatic home run.

That is what baseball is about. It's about reliving the past, remembering how good the game was, and how good it can be again. It's about all of those wonderful old stadiums that are popping up all over the place (Baltimore, Texas, Cleveland, Colorado).

Baseball is about fathers playing catch with their sons. And daughters. It's about getting older and going to throw that baseball, only to find your shoulder aching after five minutes. You used to be so strong. You used to be able to throw and throw and throw for hours and never get tired. You used to love the game.

But then, you gave it up because it was "just a game," because it was not as important in your youth, and now you're paying for it. You'd give anything just to turn the clock back and step up to the plate one more time on the playground. But you can't, so you spend your time in front of the sports section, reading all you can about how many hits he had yesterday or why he gave up six runs in only four innings or how come the manager brought in the southpaw instead of staying with his righty starter.

You don't concentrate on the players that have more than one hat, spending more time on the trading blocks than the batter's box. Your hero is Cal Ripken, Ryne Sandberg, Ozzie Smith, Andy Van Slyke, Tony Gwynn, Roger Clemens, Kirby Puckett, Orel Hershiser.

They are the real heroes. The ones who don't care about the money, or the press, or the shoe contracts. They play the game how it should be played. With the body of a god and the heart of a child.

Welcome to Opening Day.