Sunday Journal: Bathtub poets learn about spring

By LANE DeGREGORY
© St. Petersburg Times
published April 14, 2002

[AP photo] Andrea, then 4, sits on her dad’s lap in the dugout at Legends Field in Tampa in February 2000. Dad is New York Yankees manager Joe Torre.

GULFPORT -- My two boys were talking in the bathtub last night.

"We had to sing The Goodbye Song today," said Tucker, who just turned 4. "Andrea's leaving. This was her last day."

"I know," said Ry, who's 5 and knows everything. "She had to go back to New York. I know."

Andrea is 6. She had been at their preschool for only a couple of months, but already both of my boys had fallen in love with her.

"I like her. She's funny. And she has pretty hair," Tucker said, pouting. "I don't want her to go."

"I know," said Ry. "But our teacher says all the baseball players have to go back home now."

Their teacher had tried to explain spring training. She had told them how it's too cold up north to play baseball, so every February the teams flock south to Florida to practice and get ready for their real games. Then, when it gets too hot here to play baseball, most go back up north.

"So that's why Andrea had to go," Tucker said. "She had to go with her daddy."

"I know. I know," said Ry. "Her daddy had to go home with all the other Yankees.

"He's the big boss of that baseball team, you know."

Her daddy is Joe Torre.

He batted behind Hank Aaron on the Braves, was a nine-time All-Star, played first and third base for the St. Louis Cardinals. He has been the Yankees' manager for seven seasons, has led them to four World Championships. He's been in baseball for more than 40 years.

For the past two Februarys, his third wife and youngest daughter have come along for spring training in Tampa. He rents a house on St. Pete Beach, a few blocks from the preschool. He walks Andrea across a short boardwalk, up the stairs to a blue door, and hugs her goodbye.

Then each April, the Yankees and the Torre family go home.

"So if Andrea stayed here with us, in kindergarten, she would miss her daddy very much," Ry said.

"So now we have to miss her instead," Tucker said.

"I know," said Ry. "Our teacher says it's a sign of spring."

When I was their age, I lived in Maryland. Signs of the seasons were clear. We knew winter was ending when flowers started blooming, birds starting singing, and we could stop wearing coats.

We even had this rhyme, a Joan Walsh Anglund poem, that sort of summed up the signposts: One crocus . . . one robin . . . one bee . . . can start a spring . . . you'll see!

Here in Florida, nature is more subtle. The flowers never stop blooming. The birds never stop singing. The bees never go away. Even in winter, my boys seldom wear coats.

So we mark seasonal shifts through other changes: lines getting longer for Early Bird Specials; the beach road getting more clogged than Tommy LaSorda's arteries; the price of gas and grouper going up.

And for eight wonderful weeks -- about 30 glorious games -- we know winter is almost over because professional baseball players bring the American Dream into our back yards: We skip work to spend warm afternoons at the diamond; we crack fresh-roasted peanuts and scarf up steamed hot dogs; we bond with our friends, burning our behinds on blistering seats, cheering some of the sport's most promising players.

Then they have to go home. Then we have to go back to work, to our real worlds.

Then spring training ends. And a new season officially begins.

So last night, in the tub, my boys and I thought of a new rhyme. Sort of a tribute to our new state (with apologies to Joan Walsh Anglund).

When the Blue Jays, the snowbirds, the Yankees all flee . . . that's the start of spring . . . you'll see!

We'll miss you, Andrea! See you for first grade!

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