It's so close I can almost smell it...

Can you see it coming? You have to look deep through the snow that still lays on the ground and the Madness that is around the corner. Can you smell the cookouts, taste the cold beer, and hear the sweet sound of leather connecting with white ash wood? Oh, they are coming. They're heading from the ice covered cities in Pittsburgh, Cleveland, and Minneapolis to almost tropical destinations like Ft. Lauderdale, Scottsdale, and Jupiter.

No longer the players of our childhood; we have left most of the elderly behind. Some will jump into the booth, othes may coach, run for government, or spend some time raising the generation of tomorrow. And for the first time, at 28 or 29, most of us reading this can claim that we are indeed on the back 9 of our playing careers, and that the men whom we watch and root for are no longer OUR idols, yet maybe someone who we played with or taught to play the game. The boys of summer are just that: boys. I yearn for the days where I could run and play, and without a breather, run and play some more. There were no such things as shin splints, tight hamstrings, or even stretching. Pitch counts were fascist, getting an autograph or a foul ball was the stuff of legends, and that first new pack of Topps that came out was the talk of your neighborhood.

Yet no matter how old I get, or how many new players, on new teams, from new countries that there are, two words elevate our national pastime as the long standing king of American sports. Its not double play, or home run, or extra innings. Its not cold beer, good times, or hot weather. And its not double headers, hot dogs, or no hitters. Its the first thing you hear on Opening Day that starts another fantastic baseball season:

Play Ball!