#351

The weather's turning and this morning I hear a beautiful sound outside my bedroom window. April showers? Warm winds? Airliners with spring-breakers leaving O'Hare? No. Songbirds? Yes, actually, if any get drafted. You know, Cardinals, Bluejays? (The Cubs open tomorrow in St. Louis, coincidentally.) Yeah, I'm thinking baseball; our home abuts an area high school and they're at it again; I hear bats crushing baseballs, hard throws popping leather, shouts over the diamond. To me, a symphony. Released from the gym, the weight room, the indoor cages, free on the dirt and grass. Pounding baseballs into nets is a poor substitute for driving them over fences or into gaps. The feel of spikes on a good field, fingertips on seams, batting gloves and grips. Megan has her first softball practice this afternoon. I'm excited to coach her 5th and 6th grade team this year. Michael's been practicing all winter and has another session tomorrow. As Bruce Buffer says... "It's time!"

"People ask me what I do in winter when there's no baseball. I'll tell you what I do. I stare out the window and wait for spring."
     — Rogers Hornsby

"Any ballplayer that don't sign autographs for little kids ain't an American. He's a communist."
     — Rogers Hornsby

"I don't like to sound egotistical, but every time I stepped up to the plate with a bat in my hands, I couldn't help but feel sorry for the pitcher."
     — Rogers Hornsby