I've been posting a lot recently about signs of spring, but you know what? All of 'em—the trees in bloom, sightings of convertible cars and convertible toes, even the mosquito that scoped out my bare arm yesterday afternoon—all are pretenders, pale simulacrums of the one, true harbinger of the sweet season: Spring Training!
Yes, baseball is back, or at least the pitchers and catchers are, most of whom reported to their respective teams in Arizona or Florida. Soon, they'll all be back, and for a few months, at least, no matter what's happening in politics or the economy or even the steroid brouhaha, there will be players taking the field, coming up to bat, each doing his damndest to adhere to baseball's simple philosophy: throw the ball, hit the ball, catch the ball.
The Giants aren't expected to do great things, but I don't care, really. I'm glad Bonds is gone, glad to see some new, young kids make their way into the Bigs, full of energy and ambition. If they make mistakes, so what? It'll be hugely entertaining. Welcome back, boys.
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