A love letter to spring training
A reimagined writing from the depths of winter
This is an edited, reimagined version of a piece I put together for Medium as fall was becoming winter. It’s a little more on the whimsical, experimental side; I was probably reading a lot of old poetry by the tone. Consider this a bonus piece, with a fresh newsletter coming Monday.
Baseball. You’re the most fickle friend, the one that requires patience and restraint, passion and love. Of course I’d survive without you, but what fun would that be? What fun is it survive when I can thrive.
In the spring you arrive, at least during normal circumstances, before the snow melts. You quickly proclaim your place in my life and kick everything else to the side, like an overbearing lover. At least you aren't messy (most of the time). You quickly become the reason to wake and the excuse to stay up late.
As I age, I require less. Or maybe more accurately, I require less stimulation. I’m able to find the beauty in simple things and am content to do less. I wake up as the sun rises most mornings and sip coffee by the window. That’s happiness.
When Spring Training starts, we spend the first few weeks giddy at the prospect of your return. Pictures and videos spill out of the first days of camp. Every player is in the best shape of their life, says the agent.
If you’re from the north, you likely spend most of the winter indoors. Maybe it’s just me who considers the winter a hibernation of sorts, resorting to primal bear instincts and sleeping as much as humanly possible. As I awake from my wondrous hibernation, so too do the players. They bring with them all their new toys.
A new fastball you say? Well, let’s see it.
Your new swing keeps the bat in the zone a little longer? I’ll be the judge of that.
Ultimately we tire of meaningless baseball and want the real thing. And while we, the collective baseball fandom, grow restless, I still wake with the sun. The coffee is poured and the fun begins. Instead of spending those mornings over a book, the sleuth in me starts to pour over the boxscores looking for clues as to how the players have changed.
Hits five days in a row? Must be that new swing.
Real baseball edges closer. Games matter less. Anticipation builds.
Two weeks until opening day, friends. Hang tight.
What I’m reading:
So many things. I struggle to read one book at a time. I’ll leave you with this: Go read Sheila Heti. All of her work. I just finished Pure Colour, her newest. It’s the most whimsical of her books, but still very palatable. I’m currently reading How A Person Should Be and it’s a delight. If you’re into books about art, city living and twenty-somethings struggling, this is for you. Heti writes in such a poetic way with prose that punches you in the teeth but leaves you smiling.
What I’m watching:
I’ve always had an admiration for cowboy-esque things, growing up with a grandfather who loved John Wayne movies. Yellowstone is a modernization of the typical Western flick with more complex, complicated characters. Something about the subtle, pointed way cowboy characters talk is captivating. Not a word wasted.
I just finished the first season and I can’t wait to watch more.
What I’m listening to:
Japanese Breakfast’s “Live at Electric Lady” has been on repeat here. The album consists of seven Japanese Breakfast songs reimagined with an orchestral background, along with a cover of Weezer’s Say It Ain’t So.