Once again I find myself in a familiar place as the first genuine sign of spring appears. Once again, I will subject you all to a brief missive on the hope that accompanies this glorious day.
What is it about the sound of duffels hitting lockers in the age old ritual of a battlefield general reporting for duty that inspires such hope? Is it simply the longing for a long summer afternoon spent bathed in sunlight, taking in the epic confrontation playing out before me? Is it the promise of a clean slate with nothing but optimism to accompany the final stanzas of The Star Spangled Banner? Or is it the prospect of more hours of truly quality time imparting, with vivid object lessons, the truths my father shared with me in similar settings?
The grass hasn't even begun to dream of shedding it's wintry blanket in the northern climes, and yet the unmistakable voice of the worn stitches on that old horsehide begins calling out. The desire to once again smell oil and new leather, to feel a sturdy piece of maple in my hands becomes overwhelming.
Pitchers and catchers reported today, boys and girls. Everything that is wrong with the world seems just a bit less important today, as hope springs eternal.
Happy Spring.
(Yes, Noddy, rounders)