Spring sports are fickle.
That is because the Michigan weather is, too.
We start out the high school season wearing three layers of Carhartt.
We wind up in shorts and T-shirts.
Wool caps and mittens are the stuff of April. Hawaiian Tropic concludes things in early June.
There’s nothing greater than bringing a folding chair and loitering behind a chain link fence along one of the foul lines while a baseball game or softball game is being played.
There’s nothing worse than bringing a folding chair and loitering behind a chain link fence along one of the foul lines while a baseball or softball game is being played.
It all depends on the weather.

The Boys of Summer have goosebumps. The Girls of Summer are in mittens. Such is the plight of a high school athlete. Thus is the life of a devoted mom and dad, grandma and grandpa, girlfriend or boyfriend. All can be found huddled in the bleachers. Their loyalty comes with sniffles and Kleenex.
Cotchety sports writers are hardly immune.
The older I get, the more cold blooded I become. These days, I have a space heater under my desk at work. It blasts about nine months of the year. Even when the thermostat in the office is set at a balmy 68.
I used to laugh at my grandparents. Get them out of the 85 degree temperatures in West Palm, and they used to start shivering. I’d look at my visiting grandpa and he’d be wearing  a sweater in mid-summer. Next to him would be my grandma wrapped in a knitted shawl.
My juvenile derision serves me right. It was 50 degrees today. I am working inside wearing a shirt and sweater and am contemplating yanking on my down jacket.
Play ball! cries the umpire. Postpone the game! cries the sports writer.
The ump is wearing a chest protector. I have on thermal underwear.