Third is the Word

The most famous 18-wheeler in America is probably the one that carries all the Red Sox’s gear from Boston to Florida for Spring Training.

It would not surprise me if fans could track the truck’s journey in real-time, though anyone who does that should have their Internet access taken away for a year.

(No problem; just have them switch to Fairpoint).

For all its troubles, baseball is the only major sport that brings with it the promise of spring. That link, in itself, is powerful enough to overcome any steroid scandal.

That’s why you can find at least one baseball fan in just about every social situation you encounter.

It’s also why no one will bat an eye for writing a column previewing the upcoming season before the end of February.

What short memories we have. We saw none of this hype back when The Curse was still active. Prior to 2005, we greeted each season with as much dreadful anticipation as enthusiasm.

I, for one, say these are still the Red Sox. Pessimism is prudence. Better to keep expectations low.

But even the most starry-eyed Fenway freak must concede that the Sox can’t be considered favorites to win their third World Series of the decade.

The Yankees are doing their part to stimulate the economy by spending $709 billion on new players like C.C. Sabathia, Mark Tiexeira, Ty Cobb, Clark Kent, Roy Hobbs, and Muhammad Ali.

With a line-up like that, they are sure to contend for a championship. If they have a weakness, it would be the preponderance of players who are too old or injury-prone to stay healthy.

But they’ve signed House, MD as their new team physician, and Hank Steinbrenner has just patented new cybernetic technology so he can replace any defective body parts with ultra-powerful mechanical ones as needed.

And don’t forget about the Tampa Bay Rays, the first minor league team to make it to the World Series since the 2007 Colorado Rockies.

Tampa’s roster is loaded with talented young players whose names I can’t remember. They all missed big chunks of last season due to injuries and trying to get all the driving hours in for their learner’s permits, but still won the pennant somehow.

What will they do with a healthy season, and the addition of pitching phenom David Price and his absurd 132 mph sliding fastball thing?

The Red Sox could be in for a long year, even though they have two of the best starting pitchers in baseball, an absurdly deep bullpen, the reigning league MVP, a line-up full of solid, patient, versatile hitters, and zero overpaid prima-donna choke artists.

But it won’t be enough to overcome both the Yankees and the Rays.

They will need solid production at catcher and shortstop.

They need Matsuzaka to pitch more than five innings per start.

They need Drew to stay healthy (ha!) and consistent (ha ha!).

They need Ellsbury to finally channel his inner Johnny Damon.

They need David Ortiz to be Big Papi again.

They need some good bounces and some lucky breaks, (starting with Derek Jeter’s right arm, perhaps).

If at least three of these things happen, I can see the Sox making the playoffs. Otherwise, we’re looking the best third-place team in the history of baseball.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go break into the Yankees’ tractor-trailer. I’m going to smear some kryptonite on Clark Kent’s batting gloves.

The Mother of All Holidays

Fatherhood brings many responsibilities, not the least of which is to remember, and properly observe, Mother’s Day. So get out your calendars, gentlemen, and make a note that Mother’s Day falls… uh… on a weekend. I think.

Okay, so I’m not that good with dates, unless they are the dates when the Yankees are scheduled to visit Fenway Park. But I’m trying to improve, because now that I’ve watched my wife become the superhuman force of nature that is Mommy, I take this holiday much more seriously.

We should celebrate Mother’s Day at least a couple of times a week. And we should celebrate it hardcore, like college students celebrate Cinco de Mayo.

Let’s build statues of pregnant women all over the place, at least one in every town.

Should these statues portray the stereotypical image of pregnancy, the fit and healthy Amazon lady who graces the cover of most motherhood magazines with a serene smile? Or should they be more realistic, the grim woman whose back, bladder, hormones, and hemorrhoids are in all-out violent revolt with a whole trimester left to go?

My wife survived months of severe nausea with grace and dignity (allowing the dogs to clean up your vomit can be “dignified” if you’ve already thrown up 20 times that day). In contrast, one day of stomach flu turns me into a whimpering baboon.

Completely exhausted and depleted, she went on to give birth and then endure several months with no sleep, as the baby required constant dancing in her baby carrier to sleep and didn’t want anything to do with her father until she turned six months old.

Something about this intense process transforms normal women into omniscient beings.

My mother once convinced me she had eyes in the back of her head, and I’ve yet to observe any hard evidence to contradict her claim.

Furthermore, mothers can provide scads of obscure information. My wife knew the exact right time (age eleven months and 24 days) to turn around the car safety seat so that it faces forward instead of backward.

Don't ask me how she knew, she just knew.

When I tried to turn it around a week early, because I happened to have a few spare moments (I like to use spare moments to find ways to lower my self-esteem), she gave me a tongue-lashing that would have shamed Genghis Kahn.

Another example: when I try to change my daughter's diaper, she squirms and twists and kicks around as if she was the offspring of a circus contortionist and an Olympic synchronized swimmer. But my wife can come in and calm her right down, accomplishing the diaper change in under 30 seconds.

Wow.

Plus, mothers have all the dirt on us. I don't care who you are, if you're reading this, you were at one time (hopefully not the present time) that squirming diaper change-ee. Barbara Bush could leak rare and humiliating information about our President if she wanted to; she’d just have to call up his nanny to find out about his childhood.

Knowing that my mother made huge sacrifices for me, remembers every minute detail of my childhood, and could embarrass me on a whim, I should probably at least give her a call and wish her a happy Mother’s Day.

But first I have to call her and find out when Mother’s Day is.