Since this winter has been dragging on and on, the news that Spring training is almost here is a welcome reminder of warmer days to come.
I’ve written about Beyond the Vines before, and in a way it reminds me of something, too. Nestled among the graves at the Bohemian National cemetery on Chicago’s North side, it tells me that some day my last spring training will come, and I probably won’t even know when that happens. And it’s better this way, because every one of them needs to be savored as though it might not ever happen again.
For those that are buried here, in a replication of Wrigley Field’s ivy-covered outfield wall, Spring training won’t ever come around again. As Steve Goodman once sang, they’re watching the Angels now.
I hope there’s good baseball wherever it is that we go after we die. But then again, how could there not be?