Is it really baseball season already?

I'm going to lay aside for a moment how wrong Tuesday's Major League Baseball opener was.

I'm not going to mention how senseless it is to start playing baseball games before we've even reached the second weekend of March Madness.

And I'm not going to write about how blasphemous it is that the opener for "America's Pastime" was played thousands of miles across the ocean in Tokyo, Japan.

None of that is important today. All that's important is that the baseball season has begun. And ultimately, that is a good thing.

But I'm not going to lie and claim that I have some sort of religious appreciation for the game of baseball. You won't hear me waxing nostalgic about fabricated memories of days spent at the ballpark with my dad.

In fact, I will even say here and now that baseball is barely even a sport. When I think of sports, I think of things like football and basketball — games that take a far greater toll on the human body than baseball. In many ways, baseball is more of a hobby than a sport. It's probably more appropriately classified with things like croquet, horseshoes and badminton.

But this isn't meant to diminish the importance of baseball. Baseball is America's Passtime because it transcends beyond a mere game played on a field with a bat and ball. Baseball is ultimately an experience — part of the fabric of the American culture.

You can see this in the world of entertainment. Some of the best sports movies are those about baseball. There's movies like "The Natural," "A Field of Dreams," "Major League" and "For the Love of the Game." My personal favorite is "Bull Durham." It's a great movie, not so much in that it's about baseball, but that it uses the game to convey a greater — and quite hilarious — story.

Baseball's influence can be seen in the world of music as well. Songs like "The Greatest" by Kenny Rogers, "Glory Days" by Bruce Springsteen, and "Mrs. Robinson" by Paul Simon all reference baseball in one way or another. And of course, everybody knows the words to "Take Me Out to the Ball Game." But the song the best captures the aura of baseball is no doubt John Fogerty's "Centerfield." Whenever I hear this song, I can't wait to put on my glove and head out under the warm sun. "Put me in, coach. I'm ready to play." (And I don't even play baseball.)

Baseball is not something that can be experienced via a TV set. And that is probably why baseball's popularity has fallen behind made-for-TV sports like basketball and football in recent years. But the strength of baseball is an afternoon at the ball park. It's barely even about the game. It's about eating a hot dog, feeling the warmth of the sun and maybe catching a foul ball. It's about being there.

But more than that, baseball is about summer. And that's why I'm happy to see the season under way.

Sure, it may still be basketball season. Sure, there' no reason to play the opener across the globe. And sure, baseball is barely even a real sport. But baseball is here all the same, bringing the warm innocent days of summer along with it. And that's something to feel good about.

The Human Tetris Game

In the latest proof that Americans have WAY too much time on their hands, I present the following:



This video was one of several winners in the recently announced "YouTube Awards." To see the other winners, click here.

I know you have the time.

A well-earned retirement from winter

Last weekend's weather proved to me something I pretty much already knew: When it comes to cold, snowy weather, I've gone completely soft.

It wasn't always like this. I grew up in Iowa, you know. Up North, we used to get our first snowfall by mid-November, and the ground would stay blanketed in white as late as April. I have distinct memories of going more than four months at a time during my childhood without seeing grass.

So you'd think a few inches of snow, like we had Friday night, wouldn't bother me. But it does. I hate it.

Some folks say they like to see it snow at least once a year. But not me. I'd be happy if I never saw other drop of crystallized water in my life.

To some, I no doubt sound like a weenie. A snow-wimp, if you will. But it's not like that to me. In this case, I feel more as if I've simply "retired" from snow. I put up with the white misery for my entire childhood, and into the early years of young adulthood. I've seen big snows, small snows, light dustings and major blizzards. I've see trace snowfalls, 6-inch snowfalls, and 12-inch snowfalls. I've shoveled driveways, taken snowballs in the face, and suffered the ever-so-pleasant sensation of having snow go down my pants while sledding. I've even endured the fashion humiliation of "moon-boots."

In other words, I've done my time. I've seen it all. I've paid my dues. And now it's time for me to be done with it all.

Oh sure, I used to play the game that many transplanted Northerners do, when you belittle Southerners who aren't used to large doses of winter weather. "Oh, this isn't cold!" we'll say incredulously when the temperature dips into the 20s. Or we'll say. "Calm down! It's just a little snow," after an 10-inch blizzard. (Although, for the record, it should be noted that there are a lot of Southerners who still act as though it's Armageddon at the first sight of a snowflake.)

But I can't play that game any more. When it's cold, I'm cold. And when it snows, I hate it. And every winter, you can bet I'm counting the days until it's shorts weather once again.

That's why the warm-up we've experienced this week has been welcome. While it's still only borderline shorts weather, we seem to be moving in the right direction.

And that's a good thing as far as I'm concerned. I'm no longer a thermal-underwear-wearing, looking-forward-to-sledding, snow-shovel-in-the-garage kind of guy. I've given up that nonsense. Now I'm a shorts-wearing, burgers-on-the-grill, loving-the-smell-of-freshly-cut-grass kind of man. And I think I've earned it.

I'm hoping last weekend's wintry blast was simply a matter of Old Man Winter rearing his ugly head one last time against the inevitable invasion of spring. And I'm hoping the warmer weather we've had this week is a sign that spring is here to stay. I'm ready for it. Bring it on.

Local student needs votes

Xavier Billingsley, a junior at Blytheville High School, is in the running for the Zinch March Madness Scholarship, but he needs your help. He is one of 200 students chosen, out of 150,000 applicants.

Xavier needs votes to make it to the next level of the scholarship competition. He's encouraging the community to vote for him by visiting the Web site www.zinch.com and clicking on the "your vote" link. There is only one vote per computer. As of this writing, Xavier needs to catch someone named "Phuong Duong" (obviously a fake name) to be one of two to move on.

Billingsley plans to attend Vanderbilt University and major in journalism and political science. Voting this round ends at 9 a.m. Monday.

Confessions from the 'Spicy Chicken Man'

When you can walk into a fast-food restaurant, and you don't even have to order because you've been there so often that the staff already knows what you want, it's pretty pathetic.

But alas, that is what my life has become. And I have come to realize that I have a pretty horrible diet.

It's starts with the fast-food restaurants. I probably eat fast food four-five times a week. Of course, it's probably wrong to say "fast-food restaurants," for there is really only one that I go to. In fact, I always order the exact same thing.

My order of choice is a spicy chicken sandwich, with a side of fries and a Coke. At $3.71, it's a deal that's tough to beat. And nutrition-wise, it could be worse. At least it's chicken, generally considered a little healthier than beef.

Still, when you're known in some circles as the "spicy chicken" man, you've got to start questioning your dining decisions.

But it doesn't stop with the fast food. There's also the chimichangas. My preferred weapon-of-choice in the chimichanga battlefield is a specific frozen brand available at a local grocery store. I probably pick up at least two of these a week, sometimes more. It's a perfect meal choice for me when I need to eat on the run, which seems to happen more often than naught when shuttling two kids between various activities throughout the week.

Aside from the spicy chicken and the chimichangas, my main vice is Mountain Dew. I usually go through two a day. I prefer the 16-ounce bottles, which offer a nice middle-ground between the puny 12-ounce cans and the caffeine-overdose 20-ounce convenience store bottles. Of course, I've heard all the horror stories about the havoc Mount Dew wreaks on your body, but it doesn't matter — I'm an addict, a complete slave to the Dew.

It's not that I never eat vegetables, mind you. We're usually able to squeeze in a few sit-down meals a week at home, and we almost always have a vegetable side dish of some kind. And every Wednesday I hit the salad bar during my Kiwanis Club meeting, though I probably douse my lettuce with enough shredded cheese and ranch dressing to negate most of the nutritional value.

Luckily, I seem to be blessed with a metabolism that generally allows me to eat this way while maintaining a reasonably smallish physique. That said, it's worth noting that at present, I am roughly 20 pounds heavier than I was when I got married, and close to 40 pounds heavier than I was in high school — with the same height. Needless to say, I was quite the beanpole, and it's not entirely bad that I have bulked up a little.

But it's also true that the numbers on the scale have been creeping steadily higher the last couple of years, enough so that the thought has crossed my mind that maybe I ought to change my eating ways.

But here's the problem with that: I like my food too much. Honestly, as pathetic as it might sound, eating a pile french fries is sometimes one of the highlights of my day. And nothing beats a Saturday afternoon with a good ball game and a yummy chimichanga. Even among leisure-time activities, going out to eat is one of my favorite things to do. There's nothing much better than a really good meal — a big juicy steak with a side of cheddar biscuits, or smoked-to-perfection barbecue ribs, or zesty chicken fingers dipped in ranch dressing — I'm getting hungry just thinking about it.

So for now, I don't see the point in changing my ways. Yes, I have a bad diet. So sue me.

There will come a time in my life when I can't eat this way. I know this. But that day isn't here yet, so I plan to enjoy my culinary hedonism while I still can.