THE YEAR WINTER WENT HOME EARLY

It happens every year in the DC area. Perhaps it happens in your city too, perhaps not.

I think the official name for it is “False Spring,” or something to that effect… It usually happens in mid to late February… and it tricks me every year.

Even though we still have some remnants of dying snow, the sun comes out and warms the streets just long enough to make you believe that Winter is really over and Spring is finally here.

It’s been 60-70 degrees most of the week, and all over the Mid-Atlantic optimistic people are putting their jackets away in hallway closets.

Being the perpetual pessimist that I am, I tell myself- “It will never last… There is one more big snow storm coming. You‘re not going to fool me again this year!”

But then all these sure signs of Spring time start to appear… Girls wearing less clothing… people washing their cars… people driving with their windows down… and the one that really gets me- baseball!

That’s right, for pitchers and catchers, Spring Training began this week… This is the time of year I start scouring the internet for obscure baseball news, and taking lunch time trips to the book store in search of overpriced baseball magazines.

Up until this week I didn’t even realize that I was missing Baseball... But now that I've caught a brief glimpse, I miss it in a desperate and depressing manner. I yearn to feel it running through my veins.

It’s kind of like being away from home at Summer Camp. You miss home at first, but then you start having fun and thoughts of home get pushed to the side. “Home” is not even on your mind.

Then one day you open up your suitcase and see a picture of your family. The feeling slaps you in the face… You’re homesick, and all you can think about is going home and hugging your mother… And that’s the closest analogy I can come up with to describe how I feel right now.

I can’t wait for the smell of the ballpark. The taste of hotdogs, and watery beers… The perfectly manicured outfield grass on opening day… It brings me back to my childhood… Moe Green and I playing Whiffle Ball barefoot in my backyard.

I can feel the sun beating down on our backs once again. Our hats stained with sweat, our arms aching from hours of tossing the little white ball back and forth… But the feel of the cool damp grass on our feet seemed to magically energize us for one more hour of play.

My memory might be a bit cloudy, but I think one summer we went to every one of each others Little League Baseball games.

I spent hours standing against the chain link fence of the backstop watching him struggle try to hit the baseball... Despite his athletic talent in the field, he suddenly became afraid of the ball when it was his turn to bat.

His coach would roll his eyes in disgust, mothers would cross their fingers for luck, and his teamates would shout words of encouragement... but nothing seemed to work.

Once that ball was thrown towards home plate he would take a wild swing while at the same time trying to jump out of the way of the ball. It was a sad sight, but I was always there to see it... Living and dying with his every blind swing of the bat.

I’m sure it felt the same for him watching me struggle as a pitcher. I was a good hitter, and a decent fielder, but what I wanted more than anything was to be a great pitcher.

I threw harder than anyone on my team. In practice I was always perfect. Every pitch darting to the plate on target and untouchable... I was full of swagger and confidence.

But when I was in an actual game, something would happen... Once there was a real batter standing at the plate, I was afraid... I was afraid of hitting the batter. I was afraid of failing in front of all my teamates. I was afraid of failing in front of all the people watching the game. I was afraid I would throw my best pitch, and it would somehow not be good enough.

No matter what I did, I just couldn't make the ball go where I wanted it to go... I hit the batter, the back stop, the ground, I even hit the umpire... twice in one game! I hit everything but my catchers glove. I was a mess.

I have a vivid memory of walking the bases loaded and then trying my hardest to throw a perfect pitch only to have it bounce off the batter’s ribcage. I looked over to the bleachers and there was Moe, grimacing as though he was the one hit by the pitch.

The really pathetic part is, I was the best pitcher on my team! (did I mention we weren’t very good?).

But regardless of how bad my team was, or how bad of a pitcher I was, I loved playing.

Even when we lost 20 to 2, I couldn't wait to get out there and play again.

Every February, during the "False Spring" when my desperation for baseball hits, I am visited by these memories... And their return is always pleasant. These are cherished memories…

Of course, there is a reason it’s called a “False Spring.”

The odds are, sometime next week Winter will return and give us one last mighty roar. It will use all it’s strength to cover our world with snow once again, showing us all how wrong we were… Spring isn’t here. In fact, it’s still a few weeks away.

And that means Baseball‘s not nearly as close as I imagined it to be either… My miscalculation will sting.

So, if I’m the perpetual pessimist that I claim to be, how do I get fooled year after year?

Why is it that I find myself thinking- hoping, that maybe, just maybe, this year will be different?

Tell me why this morning I found myself putting my jacket back in the hallway closet?

Is it because maybe, just maybe… this will be the year that Winter actually went home early?

I hope so.

(Moe & Me taking in a minor league baseball game at 12 years old... Moe was the Phillies fan, and I was an A's fan that year... It was tough times before DC got a team we could call our own!)