Four Words

First of all, a super sized apology to my partner in crime and to our readers (all six of you) for 35 days of hibernation. The last five weeks were hijacked by two accelerated graduate level courses (Four months of reading, discussion and APA formatted drivel condensed into three action-packed weeks) and a state Braille exam (of which I failed the first attempt by one mistake, learning later that I changed two answers that were originally correct. If you listen closely, that’s the sound of me impaling my soul with a yardstick).

But all that is in the rearview. I’m one more course away from “Master’s The Sequel.” All the Commonwealth of Massachusetts needs is 300 hours of practicum and a signature to certify me as a Teacher of Students with Visual Impairments. And tomorrow, after 3 ½ months of living on the darkside of the moon, the most electrifying combination of any four words in any language will finally twist off our tongues like a divinely inspired declaration from the Savior ‘imself …

PITCHERS AND CATHCERS REPORT.

The Orioles, Reds, Rockies, Royals, Phillies, Pirates, Giants, Mariners, Cardinals, Angels, Cubs, and Yankees all open for business tomorrow, inviting their battery mates to Arizona and Florida to suit up, stretch out and play catch. As for our Boys of Summer. Pitchers and Catchers report Saturday, first workout on Sunday, position players arrive the 25th, and the first full club workout is scheduled for Friday, February 26th.

Can you hear the mitts popping? I swear to Koufax. I can.

It was a week ago. I was coming down from my football rush. Every year, I loosely follow the NFL throughout autumn but kick in to high gear after the bowl games. Since the Raiders moved back to Oakland I haven’t had an NFL team to follow (Mine were the days of Howie Long, Tim Brown, Marcus Allen, Bo Jackson, and gulp… Todd Marinovich). As the story goes, the Raiders were established in Oakland in 1960 but were lured to Tinseltown in 1981. As we both know, franchises sometimes change cities (Thank you Mr. O’Malley). But no franchise GOES BACK TO THE CITY FROM WHICH THEY CAME! In 1994, the Raiders were Oakland’s again! I always thought L.A. was more than just a mistress to Al Davis, but it turned out my town was nothing but a home wrecker. His adulterous affair with my City of Angels left me broken and single. An NFL fan without a mate.

And so I fixed my gaze on the college game and fell head over heels for fight songs, and regional rivalries, student sections and pregame rituals, rah-rah, sis, boom and ba! In most of America, Sunday (the day in which professional football is played) is hallowed from September to January. Since the Raiders bolted for the Bay, Autumn Saturdays became holidays in my house, from watching the Irish on NBC to the Men of Troy on ABC. But after bowl season is over, I can either wither away and mourn the loss of another passing season, or I can sack up and cash in on what is almost always a thrilling NFL postseason. I often choose the latter. This season was no different. I soaked up every stat, watched every minute, dissected every play… I even bought a football and carried it around my living room while speeding through Braille flash cards. In the end, the season ended in an unprecedented third straight Super Bowl that came down to the final quarter. Who dat?!?

But then there was Monday. Football...Over. Basketball...Napping. Hockey...On a gurney. And Baseball-On the horizon, our messiah in a sportscape of false prophets. I know it’s going to sound crazy. And I’m not kidding about this one. But that Monday I went giddily to ESPN.com, clicked on the "Baseball" link at the top of the page and I swear... I swear by a ticket in the TopDeck, I could HEAR the mitts popping. I could literally HEAR it.

Oh boy! I’m giddy!

I got four more words for ya’ Raymond.

LET’S.
START.
WRITING.
AGAIN.