Yes, I am drunk on life this morning. That and ice coffee. Black, cold, bitter, and strong, just like the winter nights we have left behind. It is full on spring from here on out. Time to play ball. 20 Prospect Jr.’s 6^th grade baseball team has already missed 3 weeks of games, and with summer ball starting there’s no time to make them all up. So our next week will be filled with nightly games of ball. These are the years to enjoy it. In another 3 years he’ll be on to real coaches, and I’ll be sitting on the cold aluminum bleachers lamenting the passing of my second childhood. What the hell will I do with my free time when I can no longer live vicariously through my children’s athletic accomplishments?

This morning was the official front porch opener. The first morning I could sit in my rocking chair sipping coffee while Maggie the Wonderdog and the Indomitable Moxie sniffed about the yard keeping it safe from squirrels. Looking back at the postings from previous years, I am amazed to see it’s May 7^th. This is a full 5-6 weeks later than usual, but I’m not complaining. I’m happy just to have any spring at all this year.

Last night we took a family bike ride for ice cream. Because, obviously. On the way home I tried to get the jump on 20 Prospect Jr. and started the sprint from the bottom of the hill. Damned if the little bugger didn’t reel me in and pass me in the last 10 meters before our driveway. Yet another milestone on my way to the grave.

Yet not even my slow decline to the grave can dampen my spirits this morning. With the spring sun filtering down through our smoggy haze (where did THAT come from?), I rolled the windows down and put on my Big Star station on Pandora. There’s nothing like earnest, innocent, jangly pop music on a spring morning. It was almost enough to wash away my Gen X cynicism for a few minutes, and feel what it must have felt like to be one of those spoiled post war baby boomers who thought they could change the world.

I’ve always felt like my generation was cheated out of that part of the American experience. By the time we came on the scene everything was in decline. My first formative memory of American Government is the Watergate scandal. My first formative memory of sports is the 72’ Olympic massacre in Munich. Vietnam war, Love Canal, Three Mile Island, layoffs, oil crisis, etc… Is it any wonder we are a jaded bunch of middle age misfits chewing on anti-depressants like JuJu-Bees?

Sure, we still had it better than our folks did. Probably the only reason I don’t keep a ball of rubber bands in the junk drawer in the kitchen.

Deep breaths

OK, that’s better. So when I come home from teaching class last night Mrs. 20 Prospect & the kids greet me with the un-opened package from the publisher, and an ice cream cake from DQ. There was much rejoicing.

Anyway, I can hardly wait to finish this process and release the book for sale. It is killing me.

Just a few more hours…

As the hours tick down towards the first pitch, hope springs eternal. We have been practicing indoors for a month now. We’ve gone through every conceivable fielding and hitting drill that can be executed on a gym floor or in a parking lot, but this afternoon we will finally find out what kind of a ball club we’ve got at Our Lady of the Subdural Hematoma. Will this be our year to hoist the Ceremonial Monstrance as CAA Champs?

PLAY BALL!