Reminiscing Over a Big, Purple Welt

On Friday, things are going to get really fun. I'll arrive in Port St. Lucie, make my way out to Tradition Field (a hopeful name for a new ballpark if ever there was one) and the rest of the Mets' Spring Training digs, and I'm going to run around the field with my arms flailing, all blissed out like a cast member in "Hair". If memory serves, I won't be alone.

I will first wander the clubhouse, regard the inspirational posters on the walls (hey, I need some inspirational posters on the walls at home, come to think of it), put on my uniform, drink in the moment, and I'm going to run out onto the practice field like a lunatic.

I can tell you right now - I'll run out there, I won't warm up, I'll throw way too hard for my own good, and I'll pull every muscle in my body. That's what I did last time, and that's what I'll do this time, because I have no restraint. But that's okay. If I had restraint, I wouldn't be doing this.

On Saturday morning I will feel like I was run over by a bus. And I will smile like a village idiot.

It's been two years since I went to fantasy camp, and I've been obsessing about it ever since. Every pulled muscle. Each ache and pain. I even miss the gargantuan purple welt I got from the line drive off my thigh. Now that was cool. (I now provide for you a never-before-published photo of the hideous wound - kindly shield the childrens' eyes).

What would possibly possess grown men to do this silliness not once, but twice? Beats me, but stay tuned, I have a feeling this is going to be fun.