It’s snowing again, light but steady. We’re predicted to get between four and eight inches. It’s already been a long winter, but New Englanders know where to look for solace. Last night, I drove past a little neighborhood market, which had a small marquee out front on which they probably post specials. Yesterday it just said, “Pitchers and catchers in 17 days.”
Ah, Florida. The popping of the mitt. The crack of the bat. Fragrant grass—fragrant green grass. Buried as we are under mounds...piles...alps of snow, shivering in our dark and drafty hovels, gnawing on the bones ravening wolves have left outside our doorflaps, we can turn our thoughts to baseball again, and feel that distant memory of summer stir, and with it at least the faint likelihood that another is on the way.
Pitchers and catchers in 17 days. Red Sox Nation is beginning to heat up.
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