Eight days, twenty-two hours, and forty-six minutes.  That's the time left, as of writing these first words until one of the most important days of the year occurs...well, for a baseball fan, that is.

Pitchers and catchers report to Spring Training, with position players to filter in sporadically thereafter.

A tell-tale sign that spring, warm weather attached is near and that the harsh, bitter cold that must be endured each year will be gone.  Winter gloves will be traded for a different type of glove.  A glove of immense significance.  A glove that when it meets a hand again, it's as if you've seen you're best friend from childhood and you pick up right where you left off.   And you start to wonder, how could we have been separated for so long.  A glove that has been manipulated, oiled down, weathered to form perfectly around a hand.  When no matter how old you are, eleven, twenty-three, sixty-six, a boy and his baseball glove is an unbreakable bond.  A monogamous relationship between boy and leather.

It's an emotion that Spring Training allows you to remember...to experience again, year after year.  It allows you to grasp those feelings despite an economic downfall.  The first "POP" of a thrown ball being cradled in its web, being caught as if its a mother holding a newborn child.  The thunderous crack of the bat from a low 90's four-seam fastball and with that the only drop of rain is the ball coming back to earth.  It's the unforgettable sight of the fresh, manicured grass that is so green...so beautiful, that it doesn't seem real.  It looks like it was taken from a painting and placed directly in the outfield.

There is something special when you watch your heroes fine tune their abilities or the observation of a pimple faced rookie busting his butt to break camp with the big league club.  And nothing defeats the feeling when you open that tiny box that holds a remarkably white Rawlings baseball that contains a fresh, perfectly blue inked signature.  It's like a Mastercard commercial; it's priceless.

Even if you can't travel down to or be lucky enough to live close enough to Florida or Arizona, it doesn't stop anyone from tracking down the nearest baseball field to hit a few.  When a father doesn't have to be asked twice by his son to hit him ground-balls until the sun sinks below the horizon.  It doesn't matter that when a boy swipes at the dirt from the pitching rubber, and a father has to squat down, achy knees and all that the next Sandy Koufax probably isn't the one firing fastballs into the mitt.

It's just a simple reminder that winter is fading and our national pastime will again step into the spotlight all across the world.  Sales in sunflower seeds will soar.  Laundry detergent will be stock piled and kids will dream of winning game seven's of the World Series in backyards everywhere.  As will big leaguers lacing up their spikes who are about to take the field and prepare for the grueling 162 game season, where every game counts.

But for now, as the snow still lingers on the ground and temperatures still remain below freezing, we'll sit and we'll wait for spring to get here.  Hall of Famer, Rogers Hornsby said it best, "People ask me what I do in winter when there's no baseball.  I'll tell you what I do.  I stare out the window and wait for spring."

So together as we sit and stare out of our windows and wait, we can't help but think to ourselves...Only eight days, twenty-two hours and thirteen minutes to go.

Brian A. Beer