The calendar said March 21 was the first day of spring. I beg to differ.
Sports writers know nothing of sentimental things such as birds, flowers and love, but my heart was all aflutter yesterday as I wrapped my arms around the temperate weather and wondered why I wore pants on a day like that. I then pondered why I wasn’t golfing before settling in to watch Major League Baseball’s opening day.
In the words of Tony “Scarface” Montana: “I don’t need no stinkin’ calendar or groundhog to tell me when spring is, mehn!”
Personally, the start of the baseball season is synonymous with spring. The trigger is as powerful to my imagination as smell is. But it’s not just the fact that I now get to sit around cheering for my favorite sports franchise for eight months (God willing), but the way people act around me.
Some people wear baseball hats because they forgot to brush their hair that morning. Some people (like me) haven’t accepted their inner Jason Statham yet and wear it to cover up a receding hairline. Either way, there doesn’t seem to be much thought process behind the wardrobe accessory. Hats don’t really even indicate allegiance anymore. But putting on a team’s shirt takes a conscious decision, particularly when April rolls around.
I’ve been wearing a Boston Red Sox hat for basically the past three years of my life. After October, nobody says a word about it. Today, I mixed in a Red Sox T-shirt with the three-quarters sleeves. I quickly found out every New York Yankees fan who had been laying dormant all winter.
I had to sign for a FedEx package today. The delivery guy said, “I just have to tell you one thing: I hate your shirt.”
I can smell the freshly mowed blades of grass and I can see the apple blossoms now.
In my creative writing class, I had my short story workshopped. I noticed a fellow classmate wore his New York Yankees hat and sweatshirt for this momentous, albeit perennial, occasion of opening day. I thought of saying something, but was nervous to read my story in front of the whole class. When everyone turned in their corrections and comments to me afterward, Chris Alberico told me he liked my story, but Boston sucked.
I can drive with my windows down now, and I hope I get something pastel in my Easter basket.
I was a bit bummed that my noon appointment to watch the Red Sox play the Tampa Bay Rays was cancelled due to inclement New England weather, but I was able to rekindle the almost comparable pleasure of seeing the Yankees get shelled by the same Baltimore Orioles team that hasn’t had a winning record in 10 years. Making it even sweeter is the fact that my new girlfriend is a Yankees fan, which should make every day of spring enjoyable, but particularly at the end of April when the Sox host the Tankers for the first series of the season.
Spring would be an excellent time of year if it followed summer, but juxtaposing it with its predecessor, winter, makes it amazing. Whether you’re a sports fan or not, baseball is analogous to spring, just as Bruce Springsteen and apple pie are to America. I can’t think of a better reason to be excited for spring, unless of course multiplying bunnies and fuzzy yellow duckies are your thing.
