I always wanted to be a baseball writer when I was a kid; a dream that I never quite let go of, but which was put aside in favor of the greater interests of someday being a family man and a rival calling to academics. Nonetheless, I still covet that lifestyle, and the following paragraph, written by Roger Angell during Spring Training in 1975, encapsulates my idealization of that particular profession.

It was raining in New York- a miserable afternoon in mid-March. Perfect. Grabbed my coat and got my hat, left my worries on the doorstep. Flew to Miami, drove to Fort Lauderdale, saw the banks of lights gleaming in the gloaming, found the ballpark, parked, climbed to the press box, said hello, picked up stats and a scorecard, took the last empty seat, filled out my card (Mets vs. Yankees), rose for the anthem, regarded the emerald field below (the spotless base paths, the encircling palms, the waiting multitudes, the heroes capless and at attention), and took a peek at my watch: four hours and forty minutes to springtime, door to door.