It's cold up north, but you don't care.
The smell of pine tar's in the air.
The Boys of Summer know it's time.
Spring Training has begun.
You watch them stretch and loosen up
and hear an ump say "batter up!"
The warmth of sunshine melts the blahs
of winter's frigid chill.
Besides the players getting fit,
they'll even sign your youngster's mitt.
It's baseball like it used to be.
Up close and personal.
It is the dream of every fan
to cheer your team and get a tan
while those back home are shov'ling snow
Hey, pass the peanuts please.
And while the games don't really count,
excitement soars and starts to mount.
Spring Training means that op'ning day
is coming into view.
The following brief poem celebrates the passing of Ernest Gallo who died this past week at the ripe old age of 97.
Being Frank about Ernest
a toast to the wine king who died this past week
Ernest Gallo knew his grapes.
Stomped them till they whined.
He and brother Julio
aged their casks with time.
In Modesto he was known
as the vineyard king.
Gallo was a hallowed name
so his praise we sing.
Lift your glasses heavenward.
Here's to Ernest G.
Napa Valley owes its fame
to the likes of he.