While winter keeps hanging on in our neck of the woods, there is no denying that the start of baseball season makes us all feel a bit more reassured that summer is truly on the way.

Our Blue Jays began their journey to the World Series (OK, I'm an eternal optimist at this point in the season) with a loss to the evil Yankees. Bring on the Red Sox. I can't imagine why even the most clueless sports fan would not get a little tingle at the thought of the boys of summer taking to the field to entertain us (and oft times bore us) with their on-field antics, for which they are paid astronomical sums of money.

When My Three Sons (you have heard of them here before) were growing up, dad joined their teams as assistant coach, or manager, or bat man, and reveled in the competition, believing, like all fathers, that my kids were the best.

I wondered why the coach couldn't see what I saw and why, on some occasions, Jason, Christopher or Steven had to ride the pines on the bench, when they should be at bat, clouting the game-winning home run, or guarding third base with a hot glove and rifle arm.

I realized not so long ago that part of the reason I loved minor baseball (truth be told, it was fastball) was the opportunity to annoy the heck out of the other players and their fans. If you have been there, you might remember, "Hey, batter, batter. Hey, batter, batter … Swing!" Or the ever-popular, "Hey chucky, whatcha gonna do?" screamed at the opposing pitcher in an attempt to wreck his concentration.

Sometimes, we didn't have to say a word to annoy a batter. Simply moving in the fielders showed the batter we had no doubt he couldn't hit the ball further than the pitcher's mound. Frequently, he didn't.

Player and coaches also had a collection of insults to hurl at the umpire, the poor slob who, in minor ball, was rarely paid, faced rabid mothers who didn't know a strike from a balk, had to contend with swarms of equally-rabid mosquitoes at some bush-league diamond built beside a swamp on the outskirts of Napanee, all the while dodging wild pitches and whirling bats tossed by kids who couldn't believe they had actually connected with the ball.

The best umpires are deaf to the fans and have a thick skin that is impervious to catcalls. And, oh yes, they never tie their seeing-eye dog to the backstop.

It may come as a surprise, but it is against the official rules of baseball to insult an umpire. I think, however, that the best umpires love to be yelled at, and thoroughly enjoy giving a player or coach the thumb, as they eject them from the game. Show me an ump who is congratulated for calling a good game, and I'll show you a person who believes he has failed in living up to the expectations of The Show.

Kids' baseball is all about sweltering summer evenings, dusty infields, busted bleachers, a few beers in the parking lot, and road trips to the big city where all the opposing 12-year-old players need a shave. And coughing up a $100 deductible on your windshield insurance following the high foul ball over the backstop.

In this province, kids playing ball, and probably more so their parents, play and cheer their hearts out in anticipation of that long-awaited season when everything goes right. It's usually remembered as the trip to the all-Ontario, the pinnacle of baseball's best.

It starts in late May, at the first tryouts and practices, when you convince the farm boy from Punkydoodle Corners that he'll have a shot at the top if he throws his 80-mph climbing fastball for your squad, rather than against it.

It continues as your catcher and first baseman combine for a .600 average, hitting for power from both sides of the plate, even though they don't really understand what that means.

By July of that once-in-a-lifetime season, it's obvious your team is unbeatable and you actually win some squeakers based on your intimidating reputation alone.

The hot, steamy days of early August bring the league, district and zone playoffs, followed by the all-Ontarios and, if you prevail, a week or two of basking in the glory of the World Series equivalent for kids.

I suppose it's the same in hockey, soccer, gymnastics, or figure skating. And I'm certain parents of kids in those sports get to ride on the coattails of their children just like moms and dads in ball. And what a ride it is.

Things haven't changed ... much. One of my sons now coaches minor ball in Oro-Medonte Township and my grandson plays on the team. They won it all last year, and while that was outstanding, they are experienced enough ballplayers know they might just as easily finish dead last this year.

I watched a few games and noticed two things that are different today – there are girls on the co-ed team (that's OK, because they mature earlier than boys and seem to be able to hit home runs at will) and the kids appear to be way more polite. I didn't hear one player or parent offer to pay for the umpire's next eye exam