Be Mine

People ask me what I do in winter when there’s no baseball. I’ll tell you what I do. I stare out the window and wait for spring.

~Rogers Hornsby

They say absence makes the heart grow fonder, and that’s certainly true for baseball fans who have to endure the long and lonely offseason that stretches through the cold, unending months of winter. But those dark days are officially behind us now: it’s P&C day, y’all.

It’s positively poetic that pitchers and catchers report on Valentine’s Day, because quite a few of the Ladies have ongoing torrid affairs with baseball. And let’s be honest- we’d much rather be treated to the boys of summer than yet another lame box of candy. So we’ve put together a few love letters to baseball – little Valentine’s treats for our favorite teams and players, and the game itself… all after the jump.

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth of the lineup
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight of first place
For the ends of September and the playoffs.
I love thee to the level of every day’s
starting pitcher, by sun and stadium lights.
I love thee freely, as Reyes steals a base;
I love thee purely, as Beltran dives for a ball in centerfield.
I love thee with a passion put to use
In my old griefs from 2000, 2006 & 2007, and with my faith in D-Wright.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost Mets, — I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life! — and, if the baseball gods choose,
I shall but love thee better after a World Series win.

This is the size of my heart you are allowed to hold,
This is the size of my heart you are allowed to darken,
This is the size of my heart you are allowed to break.

This is the time I spend each day reading WHYGAVS,
This is the new management, same as the old management,
This is the game I will attend come April when you are in town.

This is the heart of distant memories,
This is the heart I carry for my oldest friend in the world, thousands of miles away,
This is the heart not for baseball, but for Britcher who still loves the Buccos.

This is the color of black.

	Spring Training: My annual pilgrimage to Florida involves the four B’s: baseball, boys, booze & beach. If loving that is wrong, I don’t want to be right. Josh Beckett: I don’t care if you reported this week with a spare tire, you get a free pass because you’re Commander Kickass of the Fuck Yeah Brigade. Fenway Park & Wrigley Field: I love you in all your old-timey, organ music, metal scoreboard, small seats, funky-shaped glory. Unconditional love. Opening Day: So close and yet so far away.
	Roger Clemens: You may be my childhood hero, but after your recent, how shall I say this delicately?… “troubles”, i think we should slow things down. Toronto Blue Jays: I don’t love you like that, but I must confess to a strong like- you’re scrappy and cute and Canadian. Plus, Dustin McGowan’s sideburns are wicked awesome. Joba Chamberlain: I really hated you after you “accidentally” (on purpose) threw balls at two Red Sox players’ heads, but then I read about your text messaging addiction and I’ve downgraded the hate to a cautious “let’s see”.
	A.J. Pierzysnki: If only I could find a florist that would deliver more Michael Barrett punches to your face. Cleveland Indians: Surely this should come as no surprise to you, Cleveland. Barry Bonds: I will hate you forever and ever, amen.

A ella le gusta Molina (Yadier Molina!)
Como le encanta Molina (Yadier Molina!)
A ella le gusta Molina (Yadier Molina!)
Como le encanta Molina (Yadier Molina!)

“Baseball Is” by Greg Hall

Baseball is grass, chalk, and dirt displayed the same yet differently
In every park that has ever heard the words play ball.
Baseball is a passion that bonds and divides all those who know it.
Baseball is a pair of hands stained with newsprint,
A set of eyes squinting to read a boxscore,
A brow creased in an attempt to recreate a three-hour game
From an inch square block of type.
Baseball is the hat I wear to mow the lawn.
Baseball is a simple game of catch
and the never-ending search for the perfect knuckleball.
Baseball is Willie vs Mickey, Gibson vs Koufax, and Buddy Biancalana vs the odds.
Baseball links Kansan and Missourian, American and Japanese,
But most of all father and son.
Baseball is the scent of spring,
The unmistakable sound of a double down the line,
And the face of a 10-year-old emerging from a pile of bodies
With a worthless yet priceless foul ball.
Baseball is a language of very simple words that tell unbelievably magic tales.
Baseball is three brothers in the same uniform on the same team for one brief summer
Captured forever in a black and white photo on a table by the couch.
Baseball is a glove on a shelf, oiled and tightly wrapped,
Slumbering through the stark winter months.
Baseball is a breast pocket bulging with a transistor radio.
Baseball is the reason there are transistor radios.
Baseball is a voice in a box describing men you’ve never met,
In a place you’ve never been,
Doing things you’ll never have the chance to do.
Baseball is a dream that you never really give up on.
Baseball is precious.
Baseball is timeless.
Baseball is forever.