Saturday, May 23, 2009

The Four Seasons, by Vivaldi and Scott Van Pelt

Spring begins at the starting line of the Boston Marathon. When I was a kid growing up in Wilmington, Delaware, spring began on Opening Day, but I've shoveled my driveway on a few too many postponed Fenway openers to believe that anymore.

Summer begins tomorrow. It begins, as it always has, and I hope always will, when some superannuated Midwestern poobah declares "Gentleman (and Ladies now, of course), start your engines" at the Indianapolis 500.

Fall begins the second after match point of the men's singles final of the U.S. Open. I know that for many folks, the kickoff of their home team's NFL season opener is the start of fall, but I prefer the way the Open ends in twilight, reminding us of what lies ahead in the next two seasons.

Winter begins when the clock runs out on the last of the Thanksgiving Day morning high school football games. If you went to prep school, and NEVER got over it, make that when the clock runs out on the Harvard-Yale game.

There you are, the eternal wheel of the sports-time continuum. Except for hockey and basketball seasons. They're just eternal.


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