THE NEWBERG REPORT — March 30, 2008
Opening Day for my softball league began at 8-something
this morning, and I’m feeling it. It wasn’t
too hot outside, it wasn’t too cold, and I didn’t necessarily get an overdose
of action at shortstop, but those two games have me creaking around right now like
the survivor of a home plate collision, or two.
I’m one big mass of lactic acid — though I learned through a quick
Google search that a buildup of the stuff actually has nothing to do with
muscle soreness, and I’m too tired to correct this sentence.
Way too tired.
And I love it.
Sports soreness is the greatest.
I’m too worn out, frankly, to tell you that I’ll be Bob
and Dan’s in-studio guest on the Ticket tomorrow afternoon at 2:10 or that Nick
Masset won the final spot on the White Sox pitching staff or that the Dodgers
sent two non-roster pitchers with Metroplex ties going in wildly different
directions, lefthander Clayton Kershaw and righthander Chan Ho Park, back to
minor league camp today. I just don’t
have the energy.
But I’m boosted right now by the thought that, in 22
hours, I’ll be sprawled out on the couch (like I was for this afternoon’s glorious
Sunday nap) tuned into Texas vs. Seattle, eager to see if an unaware Josh
Hamilton and a rejuvenated Hank Blalock and an improved Ian Kinsler and an unfazed
Milton Bradley and a determined Michael Young can do more with an Erik Bedard
in navy, northwest green, and white than the Rangers were able to with Bedard
in orange, black, and white.
Come to think of it, I might have a problem with that
sprawling out part, because Max is going to successfully demand part of that
couch, having never been more excited about anything in the history of ever
than the fact that, just like we had to eight days ago, the Rangers have left
Arizona themselves and are ready for real games.
Speaking of being ready for real
games, the way my legs are groaning I’m not sure that they were this
morning. But I sure was, and I can’t
wait to recover by, say, Friday or Saturday, just in time to get back out there
on Sunday and kill myself all over.
But there’s a whole lot of real
baseball to sit back and take in between now and then, both on the couch and at
Rangers Ballpark, which will take less of a toll on me physically but will
probably wear me out in another way, amplifying every single emotion I own,
some of which have laid dormant for the last six months.
All but motionless right now,
tuned into Braves-Nationals (and a Dean Palmer-esque Nick Johnson
“slide” at second before a slightly better one at the plate) and anticipating
Rangers-Mariners, I’m as fired up as I can be.