Play ball!

Hey, how about that? In one fell swoop — that is, one eventful weekend, Winter moved out. And after 8 straight weeks of soggy misery, good fœcking riddance.

And what a (cue Mr. Ed/Big Bopper voice) cra-a-a-a-a-a-a-zy finale. Acutally, I'm not sure if Saturday's dramatic pummelstorm was Winter executing a scorched-earth retreat, or if that was Spring kicking down the door and knocking Winter's ass to the curb. Either way, all I know is: clouds gone, rain gone, sunshine back, Matt happy.

When I was in the yard yesterday cleaning up the arboreal carnage, I noted with delight that (cue James Brown voice) heeeeeeyyyy! — the grass needs to be mowed!

It would seem Mr. Groundhog was wrong — or maybe what he really saw was the shadow of the Steelers mascot.

Hats off to the Seahawks, by the way, and condolences to all the die-hard fans who must have spent last night dreaming of football officials being hanged by their penalty flags. Take the day off, go stand out in that mysterious healing sunshine — you've earned it.

At the risk of treading heavily on the angst of wounded neighbors, let me now issue a reverent-but-earnest hurrah for the end of football! Pitchers and catchers report to camp in 9 days! 9 days! Damn I love February!

I fully realize that it's going to get a lot worse before it gets better — every year, without fail, we get a week or two of bright blues and greens in February, always followed by a nasty, cold, ugly March. Some among us (come on, Brooke, give us a smile!) consider this a mean-spirited tease, a false hope, a mere mirage to be dismissed...

Oh, no. No indeed.

February's annual week of sunshine is a faithful promise, a sneak preview, a flirtatious wink — it's February's way of saying I am NOT January. Don't hate me just because I live next door to that creep. February lets us know that we're going to make it. She gives us a playful nudge, and before we know it, she's gone — and we're staring Spring right in the face.

So don't be fooled when the weather turns foul again in a couple days — that's just Winter coming back to pick up his CDs and shampoo. He'll be in an ugly mood and he'll say some nasty things to make us feel as bad as possible, but then he's out of here.

And let me just reiterate: Pitchers and catchers report in 8 days, 22 hours, and 1 minute.

Can I get an Amen?