The Diatribe * net

It’s a Sunday during baseball season.  Ordinarily, these are the days I live for.  Now that I’ve finally managed to purge from my system the feeling of dread that came from two decades of school following Sunday, I now treasure this day.  Especially during baseball season.  I don’t necessarily have a set routine, but it usually includes sleeping late, making some coffee, hopping on line for a bit, and then settling in with the Sox day game, some lunch, and a few beers.  Proper.

But the entire country is dealing with the worst April, weather-wise, in quite some time.  Snow-outs and rain-outs are affecting the entire MLB schedule.  Ahhh, if only the Sox were playing in a city with a domed stadium today.  Side question:  if Messrs. Henry, Werner, Lucchino, or Epstein are reading, when you’re done trying to put lipstick on a 95-year-old dame, how about giving Boston a domed stadium like the new one in Milwaukee?  Please.

Spring means rebirth and baseball is intrinsically and psychologically tied into that.  Baseball has just as much power on our collective psyche as the flowers blooming and the grass turning green again.  And I’d wager that most of our country is heavily bummed out right now. 

With no baseball, what is supposed to compliment my Sunday beers?  What will be my excuse to Swedish Girl from having to clear up my desk?  How will I extricate myself from antiquing and store-hopping?  I’m just about finished this blog entry, so the time on this excuse is expiring. 

Wish me luck.  I’m about to brave a world that consists of no baseball on a springtime Sunday.  It’s just not right. I might actually have to tune in to the Stanley Cup Playoffs. Talk about a bunt when you needed a grand slam.