That spring fresh feeling

Today is Thanksgiving, Christmas and Al Pacino's Birthday rolled up together.

The air smells fresh. The birds sing their melodious tunes with ferver and passion. Arizona colors, typically muted browns and dusty greens, pop with life. It's like that first kiss between you and your fifth grade teacher (ah, those were the days and I'm sure Ms. Brimmer remembers them fondly, too). Countries stop their silly wars. Nursing homes give prisoners a day of reprieve from daily beatings. Lactose intolerant children are allowed to drink milk.

Why? Because pitchers and catchers for the Los Angeles Dodgers reported to Spring Training today. The 2007 season shines bright on the horizon.

Of the things I long to hear during these bleak, dismally cold Arizona winters - I've needed a jacket since December for Christ's sake - "Pitchers and catchers report," is as good as Wife saying "I set up a threesome for you with Salma Hayek and Alyssa Milano." It's music to my ears. I warn Wife a month out that spring training is coming, often interupting her disertation on the state of our finances, house repairs, or bringing our own freeloaders into the world. I tell myself all that shit is great, but my news will blow her panties off three ways from Sunday. I take her to Outback to break the news, hoping a slab of meat that taste eerily similar to the steak I char on the back yard grill - I sprinkle with Montreal Steak Seasoning, so I'm pretty sure Outback stole my recipe - and ease her into the topic.

"Well, hon, speaking of the pervasive smell of natural gas seeping through the house, pitchers and catchers report next week."

Her sigh tells it all. Yes! Finally! I thought it would never come! That's what her eyes say despite the body language of a defeated 10-year-old at the National Spelling Bee finals.

I might follow the NFL and the Chargers religiously. I can sit back and enjoy a good NASCAR race (that's right, my neck is red, we live in a double-wide - we splurged - and every few words I mix in a dad-gum). March Madness captures my attention because I'm financially invested having sunk my unborn freeloaders' college funds into five different NCAA Tournament pools hoping that Gonzaga pick finally pans out. Hell, I'll even watch a golf tournament or two to pass the time. That just fills the time from November until mid-February.

However, and apologies to my fellow Charger tailgaters, it's baseball that yanks my soul. It rides me hard and puts me away wet come October. It caresses me, runs its fingers through my hair, then, in the bottom of the ninth with the Dodgers leading by five it kicks me in the nuts hard enough so I taste my vas defrens when the Padres score five to tie the game, and the one more in the 10 to win the game. Baseball sticks bamboo shoots under my finger nails and smacks them hope with ball-ping hammers, it drives its Hummer over cold toes during Montana blizzards, and then with the Dodgers down by four in the bottom of the ninth it gives you butterfly kisses on your neck as they hit four consecutive homeruns to tie the game, and then hit anoter in the bottom of the 10th to win the game. That's baseball, it's a bastard and Salma Hayek all mixed into one gloriously frustrating package.

I remember being a snot-nosed, rock-throwing, peeing-on-the-living room rug kid watching Dodger spring training games on TV back in Idyllwild and thinking "Oh man, the season's close. I can smell the Dodger dogs." Then myself and Old Man would immerse ourselves in the baseball season, watching just about every game they'd show on TV. Since we were hillbillies living in the boondocks, it was my job to stand up on the roof with the atenna, whirling it about until the picture was clear (we had an A-frame house that was as steep as an Olympic downhill ski run, three-stories, and could get rather slick in those cool April evenings since we lived in the mountains). We'd live, die and curse with each Dodger win or loss from April to, God willing, late October. In fact, I can thank the Dodger organization for broadening my cursing repertoire. If it weren't for them I'd be left calling folks who cut me off in Sun City poop heads and butt munchers.

The Parental Units said they took me to Dodgers Stadium (even when I mention it I hear angels singing) when I was a wee lad old enough to piss enough but not old enough to scratch that migrant ball itch. My first baseball memory was at age 3. We sat somewhere near right field and cheered for Reggie Smith (I'm sure it's fun to say "Reggie" when you're three, that's why I was such a big fan of his). He's the first ballplayer I remember liking.

With baseball, you have to take the lows with the highs (isn't that just like life?). I learned that the hard way in 1980. At the height of my snot-nosed, rock-throwing, peeing-on-the-living room carpet career, I can remember bawling my eyes out behind the couch as that beach-blonde suck ass Dave Goltz (I harbor no grudges, sure, and maybe some day I'll talk about how I plan to rip Tom Niedenfuer's testicles out of his sack inch by inch with needle-nose pliers) bent over for the Houston Astros in a one-game playoff that decided the National League West. The Dodgers lost 7-1, and if I ever see Dave Goltz on the street, I'm going to shove a spoon through his ear.

All became right with the world next year, when I watched Kenny Landreaux squeezed home Bob Watson's fly ball to seal my first World Championship as a Dodger fan. At the ripe age of 9, with the world waiting for me to grab it by the horns, I thought these World Series Championships would grow on trees for the Big Blue Wrecking Crew.

I was wrong. (I'd talk about the 1988 season, but I can't without sobbing tears of joy and wetting myself uncontrollably. So y'all will have to wait on that one).

However, as I break the news to Wife that Summer Michael will visit beginning April 2, hope springs like an old man with a fresh batch of Viagra in his drawer. With pitchers and catchers reporting today for the Dodgers, the preperation for Summer Michael's visit has begun. Wife will bucker down for the next 8 months, hoping to weather the storm - alive - while I slowly deteriorate with Summer Michael into the depths of masochism as I watch the Dodger trudge on.

Oh man, I can't wait.