Yesterday was the official start of the baseball season. For the next six months I expect to spend at least a decent portion of my time crying or thinking about crying. Having the Bo Sox get Bobby Valentine does not help. (Side note: Dear Joe Scarborough, can you explain why you are a Sox fan? Didn’t you grow up in Florida? I can forgive a lot — you voting to impeach President Clinton or any of your political views — but this Sox thing may be a step too far. I am just kidding. I just mute the TV when you talk about baseball. And your Fed Wilpon love is equally inexplicable. No Met fans I know like him.)
Back to my point. The baseball season is long (162 games! Hey, wait, isn’t that the same number of millions of dollars Fred Wilpon has to pay to the Bernie Madoff victims’ fund? Dang! It is!) and I expect it to be really painful. This year, next year, every year until the Wilpons sell the team.
So, I will have to rely on movies like Bull Durham and Moneyball to get me through the summer. Best two baseball movies ever.
Let’s go Mets!