I know it’s bad because I miss Jim Nantz. I miss the Masters. I miss golf. I miss what could arguably be called the most boring sport on television. I miss it, because I miss it all.

Sports signal a passing of time, they are the harbinger of seasons, and of hope. We are living in a Groundhog Day where Punxsutawney Phil keeps seeing his shadow, and back we go for another day (or eight weeks) in our holes, trapped in an inconsistent state of perpetual hibernation. 

The spring without sports means tournament office pools have passed, and with it the legitimate excuse to feel the fleeting brilliance of calling the lucky upset, or to turn the culmination of a three month project into your “One Shining Moment”.

A select April afternoon will not be spent skipping out from work for the first Kramarczuk’s of the season, the spectacle of that big green expanse in an outfield, or its promise of summer.

We will not wait all day for the fastest two minutes in sports. Mint will not be crushed into pewter cups, hats will not adorn the elite trackside guests, no riders will be up, and no one will shout in unison with Dave Johnson as the horses bend past that last turn, “And down the stretch they come!”

Texts to a brother in corner three at Indy will not be placed. We won’t ask him his thoughts on Will Power or Scott Dixon. We won’t ask about the hottest rookie in the field, or the best engine, or the craftiest team. We won’t jack up the volume as high as it goes on the TV, after all, the command “Drivers, start your engines!” won’t be given. 

I already miss the evening walk to the soccer stadium, just across the highway from my house. It is a dream that the sport I played and loved so much as a young athlete is a last minute, game-time decision away. Open for only one season, the building may as well be under construction again. All of my anticipation replaced with anxiety as I pass the silver UNITED on the main entrance mall draped with a couple in face masks taking a selfie.

There will be no NBA finals, and maybe no WNBA season at all. There will be no Stanley Cup. There will be no Wimbledon, French Open, and the US Open seems doomed to be closed.

There will be no Tour de France, and with it my excuse to wake up early to catch the last forty kilometers of a mountain stage live. The polka dot jersey pulling away from the peloton, Bob Roll jumpy as Phil Liggett (still missing the great Paul Sherwen), dancing on his own metaphoric pedals calling the race from their cozy feed on an Alp perch finish line.

There will be no Olympics this year. 

So no swimming, no gymnastics, no rowing, sailing, judo, or fencing, no badminton, softball or forty five other sports, that seem to only happen once every four years. (Imagine for a minute, four years in the life span of an athlete. Oooph.) 

There is, it seems, no spring. And for now, no summer either. 

From my makeshift desk on the dresser in my bedroom, I watch the streets attempt to recover from an April snowstorm that seems desperate to confuse my internal calendar even more. Sure, sometimes it snows in April, even on Easter. But to not have the immaculate fairway of Pink Dogwood or the perfect uphill slope of Holly, or the restrained giddiness of Jim Nantz to ease my nerves, it seems we are indeed living in a daily tradition unlike any other.