OK, it's not real baseball. That's a couple of weeks away.
But for the time being, for that part of us that likes living in the moment, the World Baseball Classic is better than nothing. Better than, say, MASN's endless repeats of classic Orioles games, which serve only to remind us of what we don't have anymore.
What a treat last weekend to sit in the family room, windows open, cold beverage close by, and watch somebody play someone else for nine innings - live. To watch Team USA manager Davey Johnson fidget as the Canadian squad chipped away at his team's lead in front of a rabid Toronto crowd. To see David "Big Papi" Ortiz and his megawatt smile. To hope Stubby Clapp gets into a game on his name alone. To watch players such as unsigned catcher Ivan Rodriguez use the series to audition for one more major league contract. (And wasn't it a hoot to see Bill Ripken in uniform as the Team USA first base coach?)
It's not the national pastime, but it is a welcome diversion from toxic assets. Besides, there's no telling when I'll see Nippon's wunderkind Yu Darvish on the mound again and be able to scream, "Bring home the bacon, Ham Fighters."