Winter's prisoner (that's me) stands at the window looking at the colorless, snowcapped barrenness and the shivering shrubs once surrounded by a rainbow of flowers and longs for the days of freedom when warmth and light reign and the outdoors are not a forbidden planet but something welcoming, inviting. The days are long then, and freedom wears a smile on its shining face as it frolics in the green grass, its skin exposed to the pleasant radiance of a summer sun. Oh, how the prisoner longs for those carefree days of light and glorious freedom, but this cold incarceration weighs heavy on the soul. Wherefore art thou, baseball?
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Commentary on baseball and society, baseball and philosophy, baseball and history, and baseball and baseball.
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