Tomorrow
starts the baseball winter meetings in Nashville, which means four days of
news, rumors and intrigue, the lifeblood of the sport in its hot-stove
phase. After that, the abyss.
I
can watch football and enjoy basketball, but the one is basically a Sunday
commercial fest while the other doesn’t get real until midway through the third
quarter. Hockey? It just never clicked with me. Golf?
If I end up in hell, golf will be my eternity, not playing a game I
dislike but watching it, the ball forever soaring against the blue sky to land
on the green at Pebble Beach, the gallery laughing politely as Bill Murray
makes a fool of himself; it’ll be Groundhog Day through eternity. Maybe I should mention some of the other
winter sports like skating and skiing, but that would just be too depressing. I may as well strap a snowshoe on my head.
Let
me note here that old, normal people such as myself don’t go biking in winter;
that’s for young kamikaze types. But if
the weather holds this week, I may walk the 606 Trail and daydream of a South
Side Renaissance the product of the winter meetings.
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