It’s about damn time. Man, do I hate winter. So much. Tired of ice. Tired of snow. Tired of the local weather guy telling me what I should wear. “It’s gonna be a cold one today, so make sure you put on layers.” Yeah, thanks Spanky. I’m a grown-ass man, I think my wife knows how to dress me by now, thank you very much.
And don’t get me started on the wind chill. Why do I give a shit what the actual temperature is if it feels like frosty brass monkey nuts when I step outside? That’s like telling people in the path of a hurricane that the temperature is going to be 85 but it may be a little overcast and breezy. Look, if it FEELS like it’s five below, it’s fucking FIVE BELOW!
So how do I know winter is really over? Easy. Pitchers and catchers reported last week. For one month I’m jealous of people who live in the two states I would normally only go to if I were drugged and thrown in the trunk of a car. Florida, which is like Alabama, only without the sophistication, and Arizona, which answers the eternal question, where would you move if you only had a broken-down motorhome and no reason to go on living?
Ah, spring training. Every team is tied for first and every washed up outfielder on his fourth team in three years feels like this is definitely his year, because this year he’s…wait for it…in the best shape of his life! Spring has always represented optimism and rebirth, and baseball is no different. Over the next month or so, 28 teams are going to legitimately feel like they could win the World Series (looking at you, Miami and San Diego).
This spring promises to be extra fun for a hundred or so unsigned free agents. In addition to the usual post-game spread of pasta and cold cuts, those guys are going to be swallowing a shit ton of pride. Depending on which side you believe, either the owners all suddenly discovered high dollar free agents usually suck, or they had clandestine meetings in the secret chamber beneath the statue of Lou Gehrig in Yankee Stadium and decided to collude. Stay tuned.
But for now, baseball is back. And not a minute too soon. So, put down that shovel. Lose the ice scraper. And for God’s sake, take off those ridiculous layers. After a month in the left and right armpit of America, the boys of summer will be home, playing games that count. I can hardly wait. I’ll be there opening day. I just have to remember to grab a light jacket, the weather guy said it could be a little overcast and breezy.