I remember the thrill that used to come with driving over the Whitestone Bridge with my dad in his late 1980s cherry red Jeep Grand Cherokee 4×4 on a warm summer evening. “Me and Julio Down by the Schoolyard” by Paul Simon on the stereo, and the bright lights of Shea Stadium in the distance.

The butterflies in my stomach I’d get time and time again as my dad parked the car and we walked towards the stadium has been hard to repeat throughout my life. Seeing the neon silhouettes on the facing of the ballpark, the ramps that would hear chants of “Let’s go Mets!” after a win, or angry grumbles after a loss, or the tacky colored seats was enough to make my whole night.

Baseball was the first love of my life, and one that has remained constant from those early days at Shea, until now where my friends and I would tailgate before games.

Being at the ballpark is a rare place where I have always been able to feel at peace, through thick and thin.

Flushing, Queens has seen me at my best and worst days, and has given me some of the best and worst memories. I’ve lost my voice cheering on the team, and I’ve left the stadium crying (I’m looking at you, Tom Glavine). I wouldn’t have it any other way.

The sport has gifted me with many fine memories. Pretending to be Gary Sheffield or Albert Pujols at the dish in little league games, Mike Piazza behind the plate or Dontrelle Willis on the mound, trying to emulate the guys you watched night in and night out.

It has also given me a sense of purpose. At my happiest, or at my lowest, whether I was alone or with a group, baseball has always been there to fall back on and remind me of home.

I have also met some of the best friends of my life writing for this website over the last several years, or in college writing for my school’s newspaper which was packed with Mets fans.

Had there been no season this year due to the novel coronavirus outbreak would have been totally understandable. However, when it did seem possible in more recent weeks that a season could happen, there was a glimmer of hope that baseball fans would get to enjoy something like they haven’t been able to in months.

Then, the greedy owners and clueless commissioner, Rob Manfred, ruined any possibility of that.

Growing up isn’t always easy. Your parents who once seemed like superheroes become mortal, the guys you grew up watching on TV are now your age, and you start to notice the evil man behind the curtain pulling the strings.

What has gone on with baseball over the last several weeks is despicable. The way the players have been mistreated and the way the fans have been toyed with, all so the billionaire owners can make out like bandits has left a sour taste in my mouth that no amount of water can wash away.

With how south things have gone between the players and the owners and commissioner, the future of baseball is endangered.

A strike on the horizon is also imminent with the current Major League Baseball Players Association collective bargaining agreement set to expire in 2021.

Having grown up with baseball, and to see how much of a disaster the state of the sport is currently has completely changed my viewpoint on MLB. It makes me not even want to watch anymore. That is, if baseball is even played any time soon.

It makes me ache for those kids who may not be able to get those butterflies in their stomachs upon approaching Citi Field. Or getting to replicate Pete Alonso‘s batting stance in the box or Jacob deGrom‘s windup on the hill.

Baseball is such an integral part of all of our lives. Chances are if you’re reading this, it’s always been one of the top priorities in your life.

It’s a sad day for the game of baseball, which formerly invoked joy, but now just elicits feelings of anger and abject disappointment.