By February New Years Resolutions have been broken,
Christmas debts have been paid off and the overdose of family time has finally
remissed. And as some are just
recovering from the holiday hangover I am rejoicing at what has yet to come.
February is the steps leading up to the white house, the
appetizer before the main dish, it’s the opening act before the headliner. February
is the hopes and the dreams and the anticipation before the big game. February
is to March and April what stuffed mushrooms are to a steak dinner or what
Hunter Hayes is to Reba McEntire.
February’s real purpose is two-fold: a) to show us that
spelling and pronunciation have no correlation to eachother and b) to tease our
athletic appetite until the main coarses arrive: the draft, opening day, and
the madness that is March.
February gives us the combine. And with the combine comes
the draft. And the draft day predictions, and Mel’s big board, and failed
wonderlic tests. The NFL Draft is like one big game of dodgeball minus the
dodging, ducking, diving, dipping, and dodging and only having the drafting.
Its 3rd grade picking teams taken to the next level.
It’s suits and ties and hopes and dreams all knotted into
one night. It’s friends and family and girlfriends and fake girlfriends all in
one spot. It’s photo ops and ill-fitting flat brim hats. It’s first round duds
and sixth round studs. Its undrafted free agents and fans who think they know
better. It’s everything you can hope for in an event that has no score.
And before you can overestimate potential and underestimate
willpower you get the combine. 200-400 lb men in womens sized spandex running 40s
and shuffling throught cones, catching passes and throwing bombs. And it all
adds up to the number you see on your future wikipedia page. So we have the
combine, where seconds equal millions of dollars in endorsements and practice
throws can turn into Madden covers, and it all starts here, in February.
Next comes spring training. My favorite child baseball is
almost in the forefront of ESPN’s homepage. America’s past time is waiting in
the wing to wrap us up again with the smell of fresh cut grass and the taste of
$8 beers. The Rockies have taken their talents to Arizona and with each twitter
update or webpage reload I reinvest myself in the Colorado Rockies.
The past year was filled with too many untimely strikeouts
and unphotogenic DUIs. So with the season upon us it is time to open our heart
to the chance that this year could be more. Perfectly timed hits and seamlessly
fielded groundballs. Big smiles and bigger wins. Perfectly breaking breaking
balls and deliciously curvy curve balls. It all lies ahead of us, and it
started here, in February.
The college basketball regular season is coming to an end
and that means one thing: things are about to get mad. (Think mad hatter mad).
Men will count wins and losses, and RPIs and SOSs and pick their teams: their
64 (ish) teams that represent the best in the country. And then comes the
bracket: A simple piece of paper filled with names and lines. A simple piece of
paper that causes nightmares and arguments. A simple piece of paper that
makes you feel like a king or a pauper. The bracket. Teams play their final
games of the season and their conference championships to end up on this
nationally printed piece of paper. You can choose teams by names or the small
numbers in front of their names or mascots or syllables, but no matter what
that simple piece of paper will haunt your March, and it all starts here, in
February.
So here’s a toast to the month that gave us Abe, and the
Bus, and Wynne Brantlinger. There are only good things to come.
