Vail. Lifted.

I went to Winter Instructs this week. In more ways than one.

Most of you know me well enough by now that what you’re about to read, perhaps oddly, won’t seem bizarre at all. It’ll track.

If, however, you’re new around here, let me tell you something about myself.

You might have owned the shirt, too. (And, I don’t know, might have kept it five years past its functional lifespan.)

Baseball is life.

Indeed.

The rest is just details.

Mm-hmm.

But if you strain hard enough (raises hand sheepishly), baseball is in the details, too.

This week, we were in a place I’d never been. And whenever I’m somewhere, or doing something, it tends to reflexively reframe itself for me in baseball terms. Seems logical, right?

Like when I read a 40-year-old novel to prep myself for a high school theater production . . . and it makes me think about Yu Darvish.

Or when I pull from a favorite song over, and over, and over again, to help put words to a baseball experience that rocks me. Or one that slams into a mind-bogglingly rocky patch. Or, you know, rocks.

I’d never been to this majestic, postcard-perfect place before. So . . . well, yeah. Here goes.