Because I’m selfish, because it really is all about me, the first thing I think about when it comes to spring training is the weather in Arizona. There truly is only one question: When I get there, will the indignity of wearing pants be visited upon me?
I can see how this might rankle Chicago readers who would love nothing more than to be free of their snow shovels and their clawed, frostbit hands. They don’t care if I’ll be able to wear shorts in the desert and, further, they don’t want to carry around the mental image of two pasty legs loosed upon the world.