It's almost time for the first pitch

You know, I said to my wife a few weeks back, if we lived somewhere that had spring training going on, we would have been to a couple of ballgames by now.
You know, she responded, we would also be warmer.
It’s been one of those winters. Not nearly as bad as the one a year ago, at least not for those of us in Indiana and Ohio, but no cakewalk either.
We spent much of January and February monitoring the situation in Boston, where two of our three daughters reside with their husbands and our three grandchildren. That meant countless hours watching Jim Santori and the other gab-meisters on The Weather Channel. Each storm had a new name, and none of them were friendly.
For our twins, it became “this weekend’s snowstorm” after awhile. Shoveled walks looked like tunnels or routes in a maze. Public transport — critical when it comes to getting around Boston — was intermittent.
So, when we would get 5 inches of snow in Jay County, the two of us would remember that the kids were dealing with well over 5 feet. It helped to keep things in perspective.
All the same, as initial reports of spring training trickled in, I couldn’t help catching a bit of baseball fever. When Brent Harring of the TinCaps stopped by for his annual visit, it was all I could do to remember that winter was still with us. I was that ready for the first pitch.
I’m not exactly sure when we became a baseball family.
Maybe it was the first time my father took me to see the Reds at Crosley Field. Anyone who has ever visited a major league ballpark knows the rush of that amazing moment when you see how green grass can be.
Maybe it was on those September afternoons when my wife’s father would listen to his beloved Cardinals on the radio, imagining the game, picturing each pitch, each hit, each pick-off play to first base.
Maybe it was when my old friend Jim Klopfenstein recommended that I read some essays by Roger Angell, one of the finest sportswriters to have ever walked the planet. Angell connected me to the poetry in the game, its timelessness.
Maybe it was my first trip to Wrigley Field or Comiskey, again with my father.
Maybe it was the poet Donald Hall, who spent some quality time with the Pittsburgh Pirates in their glory days and who wrote splendidly about the game and its meaning in his life.
Probably it was all of those.
It didn’t hurt that back when we lived in Indianapolis we could spend only a few bucks and be entertained for an afternoon or an evening by the Indians when they were a Reds affiliate, watching some future Hall of Fame members and knowing they could hear us when we called their names in encouragement.
It didn’t hurt when the Wizards, now the TinCaps, put good minor league baseball closer at hand.
And it sure didn’t hurt to have the Portland Rockets keeping the sandlot, love-of-the-game tradition alive. No salaries, no fireworks, just bring your own lawn chair and enjoy the game. What could be better than that?
Nothing I can think of at the moment.
It’s April. Baseball is on the horizon, as inevitable as the long-delayed spring, and we couldn’t be readier for the first pitch.