As I sit here staring out my window watching the snowflakes fall pondering a seemingly nuclear winter I have to remind myself that it is in fact spring. I've been seeing a lot of robins around and baseball is right around the corner. The roster is set, the team is packing up to head north, only a couple meaningless spring games left before we can get down to the real fun. I can almost smell all that tubed meat roasting on open fires. I can hear the heavenly sweet din of many different car stereos blaring out many different genres of music in unison. I can feel the sun/cold wind/sleet/humidity, or whatever treat the weather Gods bestow upon us for opening day.

   Get me inside Miller Park. Where the hot dogs are always perfectly browned and dipped in a lovely sauce, where the sound system is appropriately deafening, and the weather never matters. Weeks, Gwynn, Braun, Fielder, Hart, Hall, Hardy, Sheets, Kendall...in that order. That's all that matters. Summer is here. In the words of the immortal Jim Gantner "When we get done winning this here game, are the brats and stuff free der hey?"      

Well put Gumby, well put.

Carlos Zambrano doesn't have a green card.