Last night the weather guys on the local channels were all predicting rain, spotty though, and most of them predicted the game would go on. This morning my Yahoo thing is predicting no rain. Windy though, from the south, which should carry the balls to the fences. And this time of the year the batters have the edge over the pitchers. It takes awhile for pitchers to hone their arms to guide that spheroid into that tiny rectangle from sixty feet and six inches away, while the batter gets to just stand there and wait for it, watch the spin of the seams, and make a lucky guess and bam, there it goes over the fences to the roar of the crowd.
The crowd, which is a bit disgruntled because of the strike and the lockout and the haggling over nickels when both sides are making oh just huge piles of money, which has delayed opening day, which is like delaying summer, rises to their feet and cheers on as the slugger joyously rounds the bags to the cheers of his teammates and everything is forgotten because baseball is back, and it will be back forever, just as spring and her bustier sister summer, are back and whispering in your ear that they have always loved you and now that they are here they will never go away again and will stay with you forever
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