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Yes, my friends, let's shake hands as old friends and collegues that haven't seen each other in ages.  Let's smile at each other and wink in knowing ways, not as those of fellow conspirators but as those who have waited through a long, arduous and hand-wringing winter to see the fruits of the offseason labors.  My friends, the games are upon us.

Olympics?  Pfft.  WBC?  Git outta here.  It's baseball season, bitches.  It's the time of year to re-heat the pine tar, throw the glove in the oven and start making vague generalizations between your life and the sport you love so much.  Dinner last night?  Homer.  Get a speeding ticket?  Bad call, ump.  Falling for a girl who lives across the ocean?  I'd call that chasing a breaking ball off the plate on 3-0.

It's the most wonderful time of the year!  At least until the real season starts.  For now, dear friends, drown yourselves in home runs by Hunter, Mauer and Ford.  Drown yourselves in being able to see kids play that you may not ever see again.  Drown yourself in the bathtub.

Forget that last one.

So, listen, Twins...I know I broke up with you a few months back...but I was going through a hard time, and frankly, you were as well.  You weren't winning, I was getting needy.  I probably expected more of you than I should.  But now that we've both had a chance to step back and look at our lives, I think we both can say with all due confidence, that we're better off together.  We're a team.  Actually, you're a team, but we're a different sort of team, you and I.

You play the game, I watch.  You win, I'm happy for you.  You lose, I take off my belt.  And change it, because it was probably the reason you lost.  I'm superstitious.  Did you actually think I was going to beat you?  No, that's only if you trade Torii.

All if forgiven and all is right in the world.  Let's get the season started.

Remember this face, bitches?  It means your end.