The changing of the seasons, Batter Up!

Yes, the weather has already been discussed, covered, hammered into the ground, and beaten to death for a season just a handful of days old.  We all agree: it’s oddly warm for this time of year.  That’s that, then and now you can relax.  I’m not going to ramble on and on and on and on and on again about how it really probably shouldn’t have been 80 degrees every day this week.  You know, being March and all.

Indeed, this post isn’t about the changing of that season, it’s about the changing of the sports season.  Put me in, coach, I’m ready to play.

I suppose some of you might take exception here, since we’re still smack dab in the middle of the NCAA tournament, Opening Day is still a couple weeks off, and the NBA and NHL haven’t even started their respective playoffs yet.  Come to think of it, both of those leagues better get started the that regard pretty darned soon; if I recall correctly, diamonds are formed faster than either gets to a championship series.  Not that I’m complaining, mind you, I heart me some hockey playoffs.

Still…wait, what was my point?  Oh yeah, the sports seasons.  Yeah, I realize it doesn’t yet seem like we’ve reached The Change, but believe you me, we have.

How do I know?   Because I’m at this very moment writing this post on my phone—which, by the way, given the size of my fingers compared to my phone keys is like stabbing at a 19th century typewriter with a wheel of Parmigiano Reggiano—seated precariously in an aging, rickety set of bleachers watching the Puddinpop practice fielding grounders with his new knothole team.

Of course, it hasn’t even hinted at rain all week, let alone have the audacity to threaten precipitation. But as I wait here, contemplating the possibility that whatever unholy metal these bleachers are forged from may actually be the hardest substance on the planet (perhaps that same stuff that went into the One Ring), dark clouds are rolling overhead and the wind is picking up.  I mean, nothing like flying monkeys, ruby slippers, or “I’m going to get you, my pretty” kind of windy, but the cooling gusty more-than-a-breeze type of thing that seems to be a harbinger of stormy weather.

Last week’s practice was already rained out, so it’d be nice if the team could get through at least one session early in the year.  It’s always a plus when the coach knows the kids’ names before the first game.  Last year, I seem to recall that easily half of the season’s practices were canceled and the list of postponed games ending up as long as my To-Do list after the Puddinette’s had a few days alone in the house.

Come to think of it, with early spring being when kids should do most of the learning part of playing baseball, its astounding any of them ever actually manage to figure out which end of the bat you put on the ball. 

I guess that’s why for the first few years, a kids’ game can last even longer than the NBA playoffs.

And just think for all that time, I’ll be riding these same bleachers, which are undoubtedly a more notorious torture device than anything designed in the dark ages.

Play Ball!

Pud’n

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