Call me an old-fashioned sort of bloke, but I don’t believe in letting the team get my dander up anytime before April 1. While others may choose to bang their heads against a wall over Daisuke’s March performance or Papelbon’s early ineffectiveness or whether Jenks or DeMarlo can eat their weight in ham sandwiches, I just sit back, drink in hand, and soak it all in.
Look, there’s a chill in the air in Boston. My back yard’s still mushy. The 200 arborvitaes I planted last spring have been flattened by ice and wayward gutters. But when I flip on my TV, I’m instantly transported to the land of palm trees and Ellis-approved short skirts. And as I watch the boys go through the motions, I remember what spring training meant to me: soaking up the sun, loosening up the quads, and chasing tail until the restraining orders come in.
Do I worry? Hell, ever since David Lee Roth left Van Halen, I’ve learned to live in a world full of unexpected horrors. But I also know the value of saving that stomach acid for when I really need it. Like a late September pennant rush or any sentence that includes “Carl Crawford’s ankle” and “bitten by squirrels.”
Have no doubt that when the clock strikes “season,” that A-Gon contract gets done, Paps straightens out his shit real good, and Beckett puts on his game pants. Think Pedroia’s gonna let anyone fall asleep on the job? Me neither.
Until then, I’ve got some steaks on the grill, a cooler full of Pabst, and a heart full of mellow. Who’s with me?