In which I cannot contain myself any longer

Sure, it’s still barely above freezing in Michigan. And, yes, were I still in high school (and not just the same height I was in high school) we’d be taking grounders off the basketball court because no one practices outside in this bullshit weather.

But it’s sunny. Clete Thomas has been sent back to the minors. My coach says things like, “In a few weeks, when your games start. . . .” My bridesman, Kyle, has registered both our co-ed teams.

And I, friends, just. Can’t. Wait.

I can’t wait for the dirt of the infield. For the way it sort of turns to dust and clings to your skin after the game, and if you’re lazy like me (or just in love with the scent, also like me) you’ll fall asleep in your uniform and wake up with the faintest film of infield-dirt-silkydust-driedsweat to rinse off before heading to work.

You might even enjoy smelling it as it hits the water and transforms into the scent of “willthisbearaindelay?”

Miguel Cabrera almost hit for the cycle. I’ve finally learned to backhand screamers down the line.

A man has, miraculously, convinced me to choke up (and perhaps use a lighter bat). Apparently it’s not the best plan to use a 34-inch bat when you’re, um, 62 inches tall.

I’ve even started having baseball dreams, a likely consequence of thinking through my swing as I nod off or imagining I’m a closer like Brian Wilson.

It’s almost here. The Tigers open on the road Thursday. We open the first week of May.

In the meantime, you just try to keep me in my desk chair all afternoon when, mentally, I’m outside fielding grounders and listening the game on the radio.

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