Today is truck day. Which means we’re all one step closer to nights with Remy and DO. Afternoons with Timlin and Tavarez. Breakfast with Coco and Papi. Checking scores on Sportsdesk and staring just a bit too long at Hazel’s cleavage and swearing this is the year I finally grow a ‘stache like Eck’s. Begging for tickets and refusing to leave the house before the final out is recorded and taping up my knuckles for those nights when we just can’t push that winning run across in the ninth. Soundproofing the apartment and fire-proofing the furniture and re-installing that layer of bulletproof glass over the TV screen. Leafletting the neighborhood so they know that the bloodcurdling screams they’ll be hearing from my place are nothing to worry about. Unless it’s in October. And we’re playing the Yankees. And I’ve got my gun permit.

It all begins with a truck. With a convoy. And we’re ready to roll once again.