LET IT SNOW, LET IT SNOW: SPRING IS HERE

I’m an early bird by nature. New Yorkers usually get fed up with the lingering winter sometime around mid-March, early-April. I hit the boiling point somewhere right after the Super Bowl. At some point, something just snaps inside of me, and no matter how much winter is left, I’ll make the mental transition to spring. That way when spring finally does roll around, with the great smells of dirt, and worms, and flowers and baseball, I’m way ahead of the game.

By the time New Yorkers are finally able to shed the layers of old-man winter, and the city becomes a sea of exposed flesh and hormones, I’m be there with a shit-eating grin on my mug, talking bout, “Come on in, the water, she’s fine.”

The poster-boy for spring.

I made the mental switch this past week, in spite of everything.

No matter how much snow is dumped on us, no matter how brickadocious the temperature becomes, I’m stubbornly sticking to my guns: it’s springtime.

It all started about 10 days ago, when we had our last snowfall, before the monster that’s currently blanketing a good part of the country. It was the Friday before last, and I was going to meet an old friend for dinner on the Upper West Side. I had some time to kill, so I strolled through the lower part of Central Park.

It was the magic hour, when the sky is still blue, but darkness was descending over the city. There were a good number of people out, but not enough to feel crowded. I love the stillness, the hush that comes over New York when a big snow hits. Everything is slowed down just so.

As I walked past the softball fields at the base of the park, I couldn’t help but walk closer. The fields—four in all—were surrounded by a fence for the winter. I stood right next to the fence and looked out at the virgin snow covering the diamonds. To my right, the skyscrapers of Manhattan were lit up against the fading blue skies. When I was a kid, skyscrapers reminded me of the Imperial Star Destroyers from the “Star Wars” movies—majestic, impregnable.

Here they were, standing guard over this patch of ballfields, lending an almost surreal grandeur to the scene.

I closed my eyes and imagined the same scene in July. The heat and humidity of summer, the sounds of games being played at all four diamonds, the smells of hot dogs and dog shit and roasting nuts, and of course, the cast of characters that make up the scene—umpires, vendors, players, goldbrickers, tourists.

There was something comforting about looking at the snow-covered fields, so still, so far removed from all that activity. The snow was keeping the fields safe for yet another lively summer of baseball.

With the professional players reporting to spring training to get loose, it’s just a matter of time before the seasons unfold and all the sights and sounds of our game return.

I started clapping and chanting, “Lets-Go-Yan-Kees,” just to make sure the ol’ pipes worked. A couple of passing tourists eyed me curiously, but I didn’t care. I stuck around for a couple of more minutes, taking it all in, and then happily made my way to dinner, thinking: fug the snow, spring is here.