Twelve More Days

It would be brilliant to like football or hockey or basketball, to help me through these long, bleak winter months. But I don’t. I can sometimes get caught up in March madness, but I kind of need to work at it.

Today, in the wake of the ice storm that wasn’t in coastal NJ, I’m thinking about how to get through the next month and change. I know baseball’s still two months away, but starting next month, on occasion, there will be spring training games on the radio. John Sterling’s painful corniness. Suzyn Waldman’s half-under-her-breath sighs when she disagrees with a call.

Good times.

Just about everyone I know is having a hard time with the miserable weather this winter. And while I’ve always accepted that January and February are the months we simply must get through, middle age has made me wonder if that’s a good way to feel toward one-sixth of my life.

March is the month of daffodils. Spring training. It can’t be helping that due to the unfortunate scheduling of my kids’ spring break, this will be the first year in forever that we’re not attending. We’re especially missing Lenny’s, where we love to eat before a Phillies game. Maybe I should slap a Danish basket on the breakfast table one morning with the careless ease of a professional waitress.

Every year I vow to come up with something to brighten the tough winter months, but I’m failing. Even the daffodils I bought aren’t getting the job done.

All I can do is wait.

Twelve more days until Yankee pitchers and catchers report.


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