Pitchers and catchers have reported to spring training.
I tell you this, not because I am now caught up in some Tom Boswell-like phantasia whereby teensy elves in Matt Kemp Padres uniforms dance around me while centaurs with A-Rod's face cavort in green meadows nearby. I do not do it because I have arcane rituals surrounding the moment when the first 37 year old career org guy lefty laces up his spikes and steps onto a field in Florida. And I do not do it because I have a strict regimen of All Baseball Related Things, wherein schedule is king and each milestone must be noted for its punctuality.
I mention it for the simple reason that it means that we're one step closer to actual games. That's it. That's all. Just ready to see some actual baseball again. It doesn't matter that the team I root for is going to be terrible or that lazy sportswriters have decided that an aging third baseman's penmanship is The Story Of The Spring. (Here's a hint, guys: it's not.)
That is all. And that's enough.