After a prolonged rain delay, three and half months of chilly Sunday afternoons trying and failing to be half the American Icon that is a summer afternoon at the ballpark, the clouds will part over Arizona and Florida as we pensively wait for the boys of summer to bring sunshine to Oakland.
It has been a long and difficult winter, marred by BALCO/steroids, San Jose/Las Vegas, America's first two hundred million dollar payroll, and a disappointing ending to a Golden season for the Bears of Cal. A less than stellar Super Bowl could not make up for both local teams playing baseball on offense and being prone to giving up the fast break on D.
As April showers will bring May flowers, and, ultimately, pilgrims, they also bring renewal, a new baseball season, and a fresh start. Perhaps Buddy Boy Selig and Co. struck out this offseason, it will soon be merely a memory, when, with a smile of Christian charity the sun will shine bright, as it is joined by the laughter of men, and children's joyful shouts - no more will we care in Oakland that this offseason has struck out.
Hope fills our future, that and sunny days. Crosby, Kendall, and Swisher know well the way to first base. Haren, Blanton, and Meyer offer a visage, young and carefree. Dancing curves, sliders, and splitters will buckle Bad Vlad's knee.
It's the joy of renewal - a future strong and full of, well, that's kind of the best part - we're not sure. Will the young guns earn the monicker "The Little Three" or will the bats bring us back to the days of Canseco, McGwire, and Weiss, though perhaps without the spousal abuse, acne, and inability to hit.
Which will it be? Do you know? I don't. Do you care? Not me. All I know and need to know is that the sun will come up tomorrow, tomorrow ... will bring a new game, a new and exciting team, sunny skies, green grass, the perfection that is ninety feet, and nothing except the crack of the bat and the pop of the leather mattering within those two sacred white lines.