The calendar says spring starts March 21. There is an unspoken acceptance, a passive acquiescence, to this flowery canard, and like lemmings scurrying towards a cliff, we don’t know any better; we just go along with the crowd.
But I don’t.
It is 35 days to Spring Training. I capitalize those words because they have meaning, they carry hope. Those words say it is time for baseball. And if they are playing baseball in February then by defintion-at least mine-it is spring.
I am not a winter person. I live in the Pacific Northwest where the winter skies look like a gray dome, as if you are living in the now imploded Kingdome. The only difference is that the Kingdome had lights. The winter is cold, rains every day, occasionally some snow, but beginning in November it is dreary, dreary, dreary. I don’t ski, snowboard, or do anything that requires wearing four layers of clothing and a goose down jacket.
I am a spring and summer guy. Once the sun comes out I only wear shirt and shorts, heading for the beach to watch surfer girls riding the waves and a whale or two. I need sun. I need light. The only thing that gets me through winter, besides therapy and a prescription drug, is football. Thank you Seahawks, Russell Wilson, Marshawn Lynch, Golden Tate, Richard Sherman, Bobby Wagner, et al.
But spring training means baseball. And if they are playing baseball it is spring, no matter what the calendar says, not matter what anyone says. Don’t believe the lies. February is Spring. Flowers bloom, life regenerates, we see the sun. Of course if you are a fan of the Seattle Mariners, their flowers do not bloom, they show no signs of life, nor does the sun shine on these wayward sailors. They are like Tom Hanks and Wilson, castaways removed far from the madding crowd. Speaking of which there are no crowds at Safeco. People wait for winter and the Seahawks. They love goose down jackets.