By MIKE HUTSELL
While I love this whole madness concept of March and wouldn’t trade the NCAA Tournament for any other single sporting event every calendar year, the distraction is already starting to set in.
Ladies and gents, we’re a week away. The pitchers and catchers have already reported, spring training is winding down.
Folks, it’s time. It’s baseball season.
You can take those gas-hogging billboards masquerading as NASCAR and put them in the garage. You can start your NBA playoffs around the same time as opening day, but wake me when the finals finally get here (which I think occurs sometime around March 2010).
For the next six or seven months, I’m married to sliders and pine tar. I’m mathematically eliminating the Brewers from the playoffs and I’m laughing at every Cubs fan who thinks this is “the year.”
It’s baseball season, and that’s all that matters.
Enjoy what all this means. It’s months and months of David Ortiz dingers and Tim Lincecum curveballs. It’s watching a midget like Dustin Pedroia bang 98 mile-per-hour fastballs off the Fenway Park Green Monster and counting the collective distance traveled on each of Adam Dunn’s towering home runs in between laughing as the only man in the world who enjoys being called “The Big Donkey” whiffs at another breaking ball in the dirt.
Baseball is about e-mailing your favorite Met fan the night after Scott Kazmir goes seven innings while giving up zero runs with eight strikeouts for Tampa Bay.
It’s about reminding Yankee fans that gas cost about $1.07 the last time they won a World Series title and about how yes, they have become America’s team (universally feared and respected until about 2000, and now not so much).
Baseball has become watching Tampa and Florida compete for pennants with payrolls that equal a quarter of the Yankee starting infield.
It’s Josh Hamilton hitting home runs to regions of ballparks few thought possible. It’s fearing the thought of seeing your closer facing Evan Longoria in a big ninth-inning spot, but celebrating when you realize your closer’s name is Jonathan Papelbon when that final strikeout is recorded.
It’s laughing at watching Cincinnati’s Wily Tavares fail on another bunt single attempt, while Reds manager Dusty Baker has five better options in the minors.
It’s Dodger fans putting down their champagne glasses long enough to cheer a Manny Ramirez home run (but forgetting just how dirty they should feel to be cheering for that guy under any circumstance in the first place).
My friends, it’s time to rejoice. It’s time to call in sick for a matinee game and talk yourself into having a second ballpark hot dog.
Have fun and be happy. Baseball season is finally here.
Contact Mike Hutsell at mike.hutsell@newsandtribune.com.
