So this is what I’ve been reduced to. Collapsed across the couch, empty Heineken bottles strewn about the floor, every light in the place turned off, and the dull glow of Celebrity Poker Showdown washing over me.

I’m enduring bad jokes, the lustful gaze of Sarah Rue, and the unsettling sight of a rapidly aging Dave Foley [when did my favorite Kid in the Hall become Rip Taylor?]… all for a glimpse of Curt Schilling. Because it’s the closest thing I’ve got to baseball on TV.

And watching this only intensifies the pain, because it reminds me of how much I miss it. I’ve reached critical mass, folks. While everyone and their brother are cheering on The Patriots, I’m going all Jack Torrance, sitting at my office desk and typing SWING AND A GROUND BALL, STABBED BY FOULKE over and over and over again. I find myself charging through crowds at local malls, swearing I just saw Dave Roberts coming out of Orange Julius. I keep my car radio on “eterna-scan,” hoping it will somehow come to rest on the soothing intonations of Trup and Castiglione. Nights are spent out in the garage, fine-tuning the “Robo-Embree” [not a euphamism, by the way]. And it just. won’t. stop.

There are only twenty-two days until Spring Training but Jesus H. Bates, does it feel like an eternity. As our good pal SamCat noted in yesterday’s comments thread, “I need baseball so badly my teeth hurt.”

Mine too, buddy. Mine too.