As much as I try to enjoy it, as much as I attempt to fake it, I just can't get into preseason baseball.
Last week, on St. Patrick's Day, my daughter was sick, and it was my turn to stay home with her. So I figured I'd make the best of it, boil some corned beef, pour a stout, and watch the Sox play with my little girl at one p.m.
Two innings later, I'm clipping my toes and playing Memory with Paige, using her Walt Disney Princess cards. Usually, my kids already know, during a Sox game, I'm off limits. No games. No questions (unless they pertain to baseball). No crying (unless an important player, like Pedroia, goes down with a season-ending injury). And definitely no standing in front of the television.
I know the Sox are sucking out, but it's The Grapefruit League. Big deal. Buchholz tosses a bad game yesterday. He was probably working on a fourth pitch. Who cares? Big Papi can't hit a toilet seat with own big ass. Like we didn't know that was coming.
It's preseason. It's boring. No one cares.
By the way, I'm going to be writing some articles for Slurve Magazine, which will premiere a new website on April 4 with an article I wrote on the Top Nine Baseball Moments of the Last Decade. The on-line magazine combines literature with baseball. I couldn't stay away.