On the morning of October 2, 2013, I awoke in New Orleans, my heart filled with hope. My beloved Cleveland Indians had made the playoffs for the first time since 2007 and, although they were only guaranteed a single-game wild card playoff against the Tampa Bay Rays, the excitement and promise of an extended season had me brimming with the same anticipation and joy that filled my childhood.

My flight from New Orleans arrived in Cincinnati around noon, and I promptly hopped in my car and drove four hours from the Queen City to Cleveland, picking up my dad, brother, and grandmother along the way. We arrived at the corner of Carnegie and Ontario with time to spare, following the waves of red, white, and blue into the stadium. To call the atmosphere “electric” is an injustice to how palpable the energy was on that evening.

This story ends like so many Cleveland sports dreams do, with disappointment and discouragement. As it became clear in the bottom of the 8th that our time was running out and the odds were mounting ever against our favor, I looked around the stadium and saw so many members of this congregation hunched in the same position: elbows on knees, hands clasped in prayer-like position under the nose, heads bowed reverently, eyes never leaving the field. It was clear that they were all silently bargaining with the baseball gods to intercede, promising to “never ask for anything again” so long as the Indians walked off the field that day as winners. It was a stinging reminder to many of us that not all prayers are immediately answered.

Hall of Fame manager Leo Durocher once said, “Baseball is like church. Many attend, few understand.” A lot of fans left that evening feeling weak in their faith; I left feeling renewed in this tradition that I was born into, thankful and counting my blessings from the 2013 season.

I like to think that, following my birth, there was a second ceremony, where an umpire presided and asked my parents, “You have asked to have your child baptized. In doing so you are accepting the responsibility of training her in the practice of the faith. It will be your duty to bring her up to keep the commandments of The Game as Doubleday taught us, by loving baseball and our team. Do you clearly understand what you are undertaking?” To which they responded, “We do.”

Christened with a smudge of dirt and a splash of $8 pilsner, I was admitted into the faith.

My great uncle was a bona fide member of the Major League clergy and, with that connection, I made my First Communion at an early age, the nacho wafers signifying the promise of eternal baseball life. Some families pass down rosaries on such occasions, my family passed down gloves — the mitt of my great uncle, passed down to my mother, passed down to me.

My dad continued to guide me in my spiritual journey, teaching me the Liturgy of the Game: from the procession of the players, to the presentation of the gifts at home plate, to the umpire pronouncing the glorious words of our doxology, “Play ball!” I learned when to sit and stand, shared the sign of peace with my neighbors upon a spectacular play, and sang the great hymns of our faith, the Wurlitzer’s tones ringing richer than any pipe organ. I was trained in the more superstitious aspects of our faith, hopping over the chalk lines, fashioning a rally cap at the right time, and never, ever speaking of a win before it happened, for fear of a vengeful God.

I marveled at the Glorious Mysteries: The Comeback, The Walk-Off, The Cycle, The No-Hitter, The Perfect Game. I longed for the Joyful Mysteries: The Divisional Series, The Pennant, The World Series, The Ring, The Parade. I lamented in the Sorrowful Mysteries all too often: The Agony in the Stadium, The Curse of Rocky Colavito, The Catch, The Corked Bat, The Blown Save, The Rain Delay.

I found comfort in the tradition and consistency of the Mass. I could count on the entire parish rising before the bottom of the seventh, clasping arms and praying in the words Jack Norworth and Albert Von Tilzer gave us: “Take me out to the ball game…” I was witness to manifestations of Charismatic Gifts: the prophecy of a called shot, miracles of seemingly inconceivable comebacks. I even learned to speak in and interpret tongues, keeping a scorecard of each game I attended, a tradition that has long fallen out of practice with more casual church-goers. My faith was so deep that I enrolled in the seminary, learning and practicing the rites and rituals hands-on. I felt the presence of the baseball saints – Feller, Doby, Boudreau – each time I stepped to the altar, bat in hand.

Like most believers, my faith has been tested. I was discouraged to learn that, despite my deep spiritual connection to this game, as a woman I could never be officially ordained into the priesthood. I endured strikes and scandals and watched countless spiritual leaders leave our parish for other dioceses. It would seem that, as a Clevelander, I was forever meant to live a life of suffering and misery.

And yet, baseball endures.

From backyard congregations to the great cathedrals of our cities, baseball represents a belief in something greater than ourselves, a tradition that has been passed down through the ages. As we end our Lenten journey on this, the eve of Opening Day, we are renewed in our faith and presented with the hope of this being “the year.” We are washed clean of our doubt and reminded by the Gospel of John (Fogerty), “we’re born again/ there’s new grass on the field.”

I, for one, am eager to roll back the stone tomorrow and wait in joyful hope for the coming of our saviour, who will deliver us to the promised land of victory. Maybe 2014 2015 2016 2017 2018 2019 will be the year we win it all. Go Tribe!