Well here it is. Football has wrapped. The hoopla has abated, and the parades for the winners have been swept after. Winter's chill has it's grip still, but we know it's slipping. There surely will be a final blast or two from Jack Frost, but the time is upon us where baseball's beckon comes more clear.
Soon will be the time for diamond dirt to be dragged, and smoothed. Groundskeepers picking out pebbles. Sprinklers come alive with rainbows beneath the arc of water. The warmth of the sun grows longer, and higher. The sky blue of spring pushes out the gray of winter. And the grass, sweet grass, blooms.
Does it need to be a flower to bloom? No, The deep emerald green of an field's expanse is as sweet as any bloom to the eye. There isn't a green that's quite the same. It's as vivid, and deep as a green can be. The bristly soft texture of a kept field. Soft as a shoeshine brush. Cool on the back as you lay down. Inviting as a warm blanket.
Put paths in the middle of it all, and a fence on it's perimeter. Bright white squares in the freshly dragged infield. Straight white lines from the home plate to infinity with a marker where the fence intersects. As straight as straight can be. Next to the plate a measured white box. One each side across from the plate in perfect symmetry.
Soon it will be spring, and bats, balls, and mitts will litter the diamond and dugouts. It's a different feeling than the measured grid of a football field. Not as intimidating. More inclusive. Surrounded by that warm, cool, soft, bristly deep emerald grass.
Missed you baseball.
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