I am sitting here absolutely wallowing in remorse.
We have a new minor league baseball team in our area, the LA Dodgers-related Great Lakes Loons . The Loons' arrival here, and the building of the wonderful new Dow Diamond stadium to accomodate them, has been a rare bright spot in eastern Michigan's otherwise moribund economy and generally gloomy collective state of mind.
We have tickets for several Loons games. But a couple of nights ago Fellow Traveler called me to tell me that we had a last-minute opportunity to score some handicap-section tickets for the inaugural game at the Dow Diamond -- a totally big deal. Thing is, we'd just dug out of a late-season blizzard, with frigid temperatures forecast all weekend long.
I said, "Would you like to go?"
She said, "That's not what I asked. Do you want to go?"
Frankly, the thought of shivering in 30-degree weather for several hours didn't sound like a lot of fun to me, especially considering the thought of post-game arthritis misery, sinus headaches and the other consequences of two creaky middle-aged broads pursuing this type of recreation. I said:
"If you want to go, then I'm fine with going too."
We wound up not getting the tickets.
Today -- the game starts at 7:00 tonight -- the sun came out. The temperature must be a good 15 degrees above the projected forecast. Torrents of melting snow are flowing out of eavestroughs and into storm drains. It's a lovely spring day.
D'oh! D'oh! D'oh!
So -- here's a poem about baseball. It's the least I can do.