I used to count down to the Olsen Twins becoming legal but now there are only two countdowns that matter: the crazy, hieroglyphic one on Lost and the one that says there are 53 days and counting to baseball's opening day.
To kick off the countdown my favorite rite of spring took place this week and I'm not talking about Phil seeing his shadow. I'm talking about pitchers and catchers reporting to Spring Training sites all across Florida and Arizona. The only single day in professional sports that can top the excitement of the first day of Spring Training is the Super Bowl.
Nothing else can even compare to the commencement of six weeks of long toss, batting cages, and split squads. Think about it. Spring Training is a magical place, where dreams become a reality. It's like Disney World but the only roller coaster rides are the ones manager's go through while watching their patchwork bullpens try to hold onto leads.
It's a place where the primary choice of food is a can of corn. No cobbs unless we're talking about Ty. A place where words like fungo, dinger, pepper, balk and rosin are part of the daily lexicon. Where pitchers have 'dead' arms and batters pull muscles you've never even heard of.
A place where a doubleheader refers to two baseball games and not oral sex with two hot blondes. A place where switch hitting means you're talented and not bisexual. A place where Brokeback Mountain isn't a movie about gay cowboys but a way to describe Carl Pavano's pitching woes.
It's a place, above all else, where the groundwork for success is laid. (With Vanessa Minnillo if you're Derek Jeter, with another guy if you're Mike Piazza) And it's the only place I want to be right now.
Definitely not on Wall Street or Stevens Street. Just somewhere near Huston Street.
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