Spring training is joy in Arizona

I can visit the Mariners spring training site and be out of there in less than a half-hour.

My wife smirked. My daughter rolled her eyes. I shifted uneasily from one foot to the other.

Liar. You know the minute you set foot on the grounds, you’ll be hooked.

You’ll feel the sun reach down into the very depths of your soul, you’ll hear the crack of bats reverberating through the clear desert air, you’ll see the Boys of Summer back in uniform practicing fundamentals, you’ll smell – what do you smell at spring training? A cigar being smoked by an old man would be good, an old man with crinkly, sun-baked skin, an old man who has seen a thousand spring training games, maybe saw Ruth and Gehrig and Robinson. Maybe he would take a long pull on his cigar and muse, “This Ichiro. He can play.”

And, yes, maybe I would see Ichiro.

All of this would draw any man/child in and not loosen its grip until the last pitch of the day was thrown, the last swing was swung, the last fly ball caught.

What’s 30 minutes out of our vacation? We don’t have to stay long. I’ll be down here next month anyway. I only want to take a peek at the ballclub.

Can I see Boonie? my daughter asked.

You can see Boonie, I assured her.

Can I get his autograph?

You can try, I said. But I don’t think we’ll be there that long.

Oh, come on, my wife said.

Did I detect a wee bit of sarcasm? Must be the nurse in her.

We got up early the next day, headed for the ballpark in Peoria.

It was one of those mornings that sells visitors from bad climates on why they should move to Arizona. A cloudless sky. Seventy degrees by mid-morning.

Already, a number of cars were in the parking lot. And the games wouldn’t begin until the next week.

All there was to see were players hitting, throwing, catching, running, sliding, scratching, spitting.

Only in scratching and spitting would they be in mid-season form.

What’s the allure? The players are a little friendlier. More likely to give autographs.

The minor league fields were deserted for now. Only the players hoping to go north with the big-league club were in camp. And most of those already knew who they were.

I went into the building that houses the Mariner offices, clubhouses, training facilities, supply rooms. I picked up my press pass for next month. I said hi to Warren, the guy who greets visitors. He’s a former Boeing engineer living in Arizona, a nice man who used to play softball with other retirees.

My family and I went out and walked over to the main playing field. As we passed the covered batting cages, I could hear the sound of wood hitting rawhide. There is no sound like it. There is no better sound. It is the sound of Edgar Martinez teeing off.

Tarps had been hung inside the building so that fans couldn’t see who was hitting. Mustn’t distract the ballplayers.

We went over and stood behind the fence on the third base side of the playing field. As we approached, I saw Ichiro momentarily and then he was gone. I had heard a writer on the radio that morning say he didn’t think Ichiro would hit .350 again this season. I don’t think he will either. I think he’ll hit .390.

I asked someone if Boone had hit yet, and was told he was out at second base. I saw John Olerud smoothly taking grounders at first. I saw Lou Piniella sitting in a golf cart behind the batting cage chatting with someone.

I don’t think you’re going to get Boone’s autograph, I told my daughter.

She shrugged her shoulders. She’s very shy. She could accidentally bump into Boone and probably wouldn’t say anything but “excuse me.” A few minutes of batting practice and I was ready to go. Well, I wasn’t really ready. But I told my family I was.

I felt like I should have been armed with a pad and pencil, jotting down notes. But, no, this was our time. Time for fun. Time for relaxing.

We walked over to another field, sat down on the bleachers. A left-hander was on the mound. I didn’t have my glasses with me. “Who’s that pitching?” I asked a fellow.

“Ryan Anderson,” he replied.

“He’s tall,” my daughter said.

“Six-ten,” I said.

“Six-eleven,” the fellow corrected me.

“That’s right,” I said. “He grew an inch after he signed.”

Only it wasn’t Anderson. Not tall enough. Not lanky enough. Besides, he wasn’t throwing off a mound yet. But I didn’t say anything. The guy seemed an expert.

The day was growing warmer. I leaned back, closed my eyes, listened. I could hear balls hitting gloves. Bats hitting balls. I could hear people talking, kids laughing.

Bless the person who invented spring training.

Finally, I said, “Ready to go?”

As we got up and started for the car, I felt a wave of relief come over me.

I had no column to write, no deadline to meet.

I could go have a leisurely lunch with my family. I could return to the motel and sit by the pool.

I might get to like this.