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Years later, still addicted to grass
And then it kicks in.
One day, you wake up, look outside and it appears as though someone has taken a can of green spray paint and squeezed off a shot or two across the hillsides. The next day, there seems to be a bit more and so on, until, over the course of one week in March, you spot the first crocuses, the first red-wing blackbirds, and realize spring is here.
I was standing in one of the cornfields last Sunday, taking inventory - downed trees, new deer paths, groundhog holes - none of which seemed to matter.
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I've had trouble concentrating at this time of year my entire life. It used to be that I'd sit in a classroom, counting the minutes, hours, days until I could be outside and play baseball.
Forty years later, I'm doing the same. Only now there is no one to make me stay until the bell. As soon as it is warm enough, I'm outside from dawn until dusk to the occlusion of nearly everything else.
Including work.
The fine people at ESPN Radio have given me one of the most ridiculous jobs of all time. They pay me money to watch sports and talk about what I've seen on a daily radio show.
I'm handed cash and medical coverage to sit on my couch.
Yes, I stopped playing the lottery the day I was hired.
Here's the problem: Even when given the option of watching TV for money or walking around a hayfield for free, I choose the hayfield. Somewhere, there is a talk show host who spent his weekend glued to the TV, breaking down every subtle nuance of Cleveland State and Arizona.
Good work, buddy.
I'll applaud you when you pick up your award.
In the meantime, I've found something that has more appeal to me than the challenge of my job or the onetime attraction of nightlife.
Grass.
Grass and everything green has magnetism for me that has never wavered. Once, it was the trimmed infields of Pony League that pulled my attention from the classroom to what awaited on the other side of the windows. Now, years later, it's the first new grass of another growing season that lassos my concentration.
Just don't tell my boss.
I took my chain saw to the local shop to get a new chain installed in preparation for next weekend, when I plan to put a major dent in those downed trees. The guy who runs the shop, knowing I host a sports radio show, asked how I thought Pitt looked.
"Don't know," I said. "Haven't watched it yet."
Thank goodness for the DVR.
To hear Scott Paulsen's column, visit www.observer-reporter.com. He can be heard each weekday afternoon from 3 to 7 p.m. on 1250 ESPN Radio.
